Puzzles
by jujubee10323
Summary: In this chapter, Chase learns that House makes for a bad patient, and I learn that it is possible to update on a monthly basis! Chapter 8 up!
1. Hung Over

Yay! I finally got around to writing a fan fiction! After my last one sort of failed (I didn't like it, so I deleted it) I wasn't sue if I'd do it again, but here you have it. My love of torturing my favorite characters comes out. Hope you enjoy it. Please review! But don't be too mean… Ha, ha, just kidding.

Disclaimer: House does not belong to me. Sorry. If it did…I'd be too rich to care about writing fan fiction. Ha! As if…

Rated for my naughty language. blushes

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_Beedle deedle deet! Clack, clack, clack._

House furrowed his brow, scrunching himself into a ball underneath his comforter and forcing his head deeper into his pillow.

_Beedle deedle deet! Clack, clack, clack…_

House groaned. Who the hell left their cell phone on ring _and _vibrate at the same time, and then left it on a hard surface? Oh, yeah. He did. Rapidly, his mind switched tack. Who the hell _called_ him at this hour? Who the hell called him at all? Except maybe Wilson. If it was Wilson, House would have to wring his neck later. Unless he was calling to say that the hospital had blown up. Then maybe House could forgive him…He had a killer headache, and his stomach felt like somebody had poured liquid metal down his throat.

The phone stopped ringing. Groaning and grumbling, House finally reached over and snatched it off of his nightstand. The little screen read "FIVE MISSED CALLS"

Before he could hit the button that would let him listen to his messages, the phone vibrated again, pumping out Beethoven's Fifth at the top of its tiny speakers. The screen lit up, making House wince and his head throb, and "Cuddy" flashed onto the screen.

Oops. Bad. Or House assumed that it must be bad. At a guess, Cuddy wasn't calling to excuse him from clinic duty for the rest of his life. It was much more likely that she was calling to exile him to it.

But it was either answer the phone or let it continue to ring. House didn't think his head would appreciate the latter. He flipped the phone open.

"What?" he snapped, not stopping to think about using his manners. That was all right, though, because neither did the voice on the other end of the line.

"Where are you?" Cuddy demanded, her voice unusually sharp.

"You're supposed to ask me what I'm wearing," House said. "Where I am is _so _much less sexy."

"You were supposed to be at work half an hour ago, House." Cuddy continued as if she hadn't heard him.

House looked up at his alarm clock, which, apparently, he had forgotten to set. The big, bad, bright red letters told him that it was 9:32 am. Oops again.

"I'm sick today," House grumbled. It was probably the truth. Usually, perfectly healthy people didn't feel as much like shit as House did. "So stop calling me."

He flipped the phone shut and threw it down on the bed, rolling over and squeezing his eyes shut, hoping that his headache would allow him to get a few more hours of sleep.

_Beedle deedle deet! Whirrrrrrrr…_

House soon found out that the whirring noise his phone made while lying on the comforter was just as annoying as the one it made on the nightstand. Heaving an irritated sigh, he rolled back over and grabbed the cell phone.

_"What?" _ he growled.

"Don't think you're fooling me, _Doctor_ House," Cuddy's voice said menacingly. "I don't care what you say to try and get out of it, you are coming down here and making your speech to the board, or so help me I will come down there and get you myself."

"Huh?" House said intelligently. What was Cuddy going on about? House searched his brain for a moment. Oh yeah. The hospital had a potential investor who was going to fund the hospital in Vogler's place, but he wanted a full inspection of the hospital, and was planning on cutting one of the departments. House had to make a speech to the inspector's board about why the should keep his department, and get rid of some other poor saps job. What had he said when Cuddy had told him about the speech? "I think I'll be sick that day."

The irony was killing him.

"Tell the old bastards I can't make it," House said. "I'm dying of a rare disease."

House smiled a little. It was a sorry excuse, but it would give Cuddy a nice speech to make to the Board.

_"The head of the diagnostics board is dying of an unidentifiable disease. If you cut his department, you'll kill him."_

Yeah. That would get 'em for sure. Unfortunately, Cuddy didn't think it was very funny.

"House," she said. "I don't care how hung over you are. Take some Tylenol and haul your ass down here, or I'm coming to get you myself! I expect to see you here by ten!"

She hung up. House sighed again, and rolled over, considering going back to sleep, and to hell with his department. He decided against it, partly because he believed Cuddy would come and haul his ass into work, and partly because he had to get up anyway and hobble to the bathroom to avoid puking on his rug.

Forty minutes later, a very pale, unhappy House dragged himself through the front doors of the hospital, intending to sneak up to his office and go back to sleep on his couch, only to find that Cuddy was waiting for him by the doors. She looked him up and down, raised her eyebrows, and glanced down at her watch.

"Eleven fifteen," she said. "You're late."

"Sorry," House said, grinning sheepishly. "My hooker wouldn't let me-"

"You have a patient," said Cuddy briskly. "Your staff is waiting for you upstairs. And your speech is at one thirty in the student briefing room. Don't be late."

She shot him a glare that said quite clearly "Or else." Then she turned on her heel and stalked off in the direction of the clinic. House raised an eyebrow, popped a Vicodin (his first that day. He was using them sparingly-he only had three left. He would have to go to the pharmacy later, but at the moment, he-or more specifically, his headache-didn't feel like it at the moment), and had nearly reached the elevator when it suddenly opened and Wilson stumbled out of it, his arms full of a stack of files that obscured his face. A few slipped off of the top of the pile as he stepped out of the elevator, and fell to the floor at House's feet.

"Hey, could you-oh, it's you." He noticed who he was talking to and bent down to retrieve the files himself.

"Getting rid of your criminal records before the Board comes to inspect your department?" House asked, plucking one of the files from the top of the huge stack and examining it with distaste. "I'd always wondered where you hid these."

"Oh, you actually know about the Board coming?" Wilson collected the last of the files and got to his feet, looking vaguely interested. "You're usually the last one to know-or care- about these things. I'm having one of the nurses organize my files I'm taking them downstairs for her. I was just about to come looking for you, where have you been?"

"Puking my guts out," House said flatly. Everybody lied, including him, but not to Wilson. His only friend was too observant- he'd figure it out eventually anyway. It was best to be blunt.

Wilson looked over his papers at House. "Whoa," he said. "Just how hung over are you?"

"Very, according to Cuddy," House said. "I'd probably believe her, except for the fact that, you know, I didn't drink anything last night. That might present a little problem in her brilliant theory."

It was true. House had stayed at work until nearly midnight working on one of his two-now three- patients. When he'd gotten home, he'd been so tired he'd gone straight to bed. It was unusual, because House rarely got tired, or slept a whole night through. Most nights he went home and didn't sleep at all, but last night, he hadn't even thought about anything but getting to bed. Maybe there was something wrong with him…

Wilson was giving House his "concerned look" over his files.

"Where are you going now?" he asked.

"Upstairs. My ducklings can't function without me, I'm going to their rescue."

"Here. I'll come with you," Wilson said. "Hey, you! He called over to a timid-looking intern who looked rather lost. "Come take these files down to oncology and give them to nurse Miles, will you? Thanks."

He dumped the files into the arms of the lost intern, who nearly toppled over because of the weight, and then escorted House into the elevator. House followed him, trying to ignore the fact that his hands were shaking and his cane was slippery with sweat. He was just feeling weak from his empty stomach, that was all…

"I don't know what you're so worried about," House commented as Wilson pressed the "up" button. "You could have your files incinerated and they'd still keep your department. No one in their right mind would get rid of _oncology_."

"Yeah, but they might get rid of me," Wilson pointed out. "Greg, you really look like shit."

House had leaned his head back onto the side of the elevator and closed his eyes. "I'd bet anything you've got a fever," Wilson said. "You shouldn't have come into work today."

"I was threatened," House said. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, and House was suddenly glad he had nothing left to throw up.

"By who?" Wilson asked.

"Cuddy."

"With what?"

"Cuddy."

"Oh," said Wilson. The door of the elevator slid open, and they both stepped out and made their way towards House's office.

"Can you tell the ducklings to get over here?" House asked. "I think we'll be able to discuss this better in my office."

"Why?"

"There's a couch in my office," House said to Wilson's retreating back. "And bring the whiteboard!"

He stumped into his office and was about to collapse onto the couch when he thought better of it. As long as he had to be at work, he might as well pretend to be all right. If the duckling saw him weakening, they'd be all over him. Especially Cameron, with her "Heal-All" complex. Her concern was not something he wanted to deal with right now, so instead he took a seat in front of his desk and stuck his leg out in front of him.

A minute later, the three ducklings and Wilson entered the room, Chase dragging the whiteboard behind him. Wilson looked at House and then looked pointedly at the couch as if to say, "You should lie down," But House ignored him.

"What d'you got?" House asked, turning his attention to his team. Cameron and Foreman were looking at him curiously, but the ever-observant Chase got right into the explanation.

"We've got twin girls, twelve years old, one lives with the father, the other with the mother, neither have met each other before today, they live five miles apart, go to different schools, both got sick at the same time and both have the same symptoms. Both of them are here now."

"What are their symptoms?" House asked, leaning forward and pulling the whiteboard toward him. He plucked up a marker with shaking hands and wrote "Twins."

"Uh…" Cameron turned her attention from House and onto the clipboard she was holding. "High fevers, onset about three hours ago, fainting spells onset two days ago, mood swings onset four hours ago, and nausea and Vomiting onset about one hour ago. I think that we should run MRIs and CATs on both of them, but-"

"Test the parents."

"What?"

"I said, test the parents. Do you want a recording?" House's headache was growing despite the Vicodin, and his hands' shaking was making him more irritable than usual. "These kids have nothing in common except their parents, then it has to be something they contracted from them. Test for anything you think could be a possibility, and then cure it."

"Well, which tests-"

"Whichever you think they need."

"Well, don't you want to see-"

"Give me their file."

Cameron tossed him the file.

"But shouldn't you come-?"

"Listen, are you doctors or aren't you?" House snapped, losing his patience. "Figure it out yourselves." They didn't move. "Go!"

The three of the exchanged nervous glances, then looked at Wilson, who shrugged and held the door open for them. The three of them returned his shrug and ambled out of the room.

:O :O :O :O

"Did House seem particularly mean to any of you just now?" Chase asked as soon as they were out of earshot of House's office.

"He was here late last night, I think," said Foreman. "Did anyone else notice how much better Mrs. Beal looked today?"

"But then why wasn't he boasting about it today? Chase asked. "All he did was tell us to get on with our next case."

"Yeah, that is weird," Foreman said thoughtfully. "That seems like the sort of thing he'd want to rub our faces in. We worked for a week on that case and he solved it in one night. Now it's just, get a move on, and do it yourselves."

"He's sick," Cameron said suddenly. Both of the men looked at her.

"What?" said Chase.

"Didn't you see how pale he was?" Cameron said matter-of-factly. "Or his hands shaking? I think he's probably got the flu."

"Yeah, that or he's hung over," scoffed Forman. "Come on, let's go."

They had reached the little girls' room. They could hear the parents bickering on the outside without even opening the door.

"I came here because this is the best hospital in New Jersey, and I want the best for my kid!"

"_Your_ kid? _Both_ of them are _our_ kids! They both deserve the best care!"

"Not with you around. All you're good for is causing stress!"

"Oh, for the love of-If that isn't the dumbest e-"

"Uh…Excuse me?"

Cameron's voice made both of the parents look up from their argument. The mother stood up.

"Do you know what's wrong with my daughters?" she asked.

"_Your-_"

"We're going to need to run some tests," said Foreman quickly. "And we're going to need to draw some blood from the both of you in order to do them. We have reason to believe that this could have been contracted genetically."

"Oh, God," said the father, standing up. "You mean I could have this too?'

The mother looked ready to slug her husband. Chase jumped in.

"No, probably not," he said. "But you could be a carrier. We're going to need to take some blood samples down to the lab."

"I don't like needles…" The father squirmed uncomfortably.

"Oh, my God!" the mother cried exasperatedly. "This is the reason I divorced you.," she snapped, rolling up her sleeve. She held her arm out to the doctors. "Here," she said. "Take as much as you need."



"Maybe I should talk to Cuddy."

Wilson had been watching House's dry heaves over the trashcan for a full three minutes, and he was sure, now, that this was no hangover.

"Don't," House said between heaves.

"Well, then maybe we should go down to the lab and run a few tests," Wilson suggested.

"It's just the Flu," House said, spitting into the trashcan.

"Well, then let's go and get the tests to be sure!" Wilson said. "We should-"

"Aghh…" House made a noise that was somewhere between a cry of pain and a moan and sat up in his chair, clutching his head. "Ow…" he moaned. "It's just…the flu…"

Wilson shut his mouth. For some reason, he had the feeling that House was trying to convince himself more than he was his friend. The two of them were silent for a moment. Then-

"What time is it?"

Wilson looked at his watch. "One fifteen," he said.

House heaved himself to his feet, swaying.

"Where are you going?" Wilson asked, standing up.

"I have to go make a speech," House said. "About something…"

"And _now_ you're acting delirious," Wilson said. "Come on, if you don't want the tests at least let me take you home. Admit it, House, you look half dead."

"Then I'm at least one half alive," House said, moving towards the door. "And I might as well go down to the auditorium. If I don't, Cuddy'll be on my ass before you can say 'MRI.' Care to come with?"

Wilson shook his head. "I have to check up on my files. I'll be there in a few minutes."

House shrugged. "See you," he said, and he limped out into the hall.

As he reached the elevator, for the second time that day, the door slid open before he could even touch the button. Only this time, it wasn't Wilson. It was Cuddy.

"Are you on your way down?" she asked. "I was just coming to get you."

"Your faith in me is overwhelming," House said, moving into the elevator and hitting the 'down' button.

House stayed silent during the ride down He could feel Cuddy's eyes boring into him, but he didn't look at her. He was trying his best to keep his sweaty palms from slipping on his cane.

_Bing_. The elevator door hissed open and Cuddy and House stepped out. Cuddy opened her mouth. House closed his eyes. He'd wondered when she was going to comment.

"Just how many drinks did you have last night?" she asked.

House opened his eyes, bristling. Did she still think that he was hung over? He did admit it; he got drunk altogether too often. But not now. He really was sick, and Cuddy didn't see it. She _refused_ to see it.

Quite frankly, that pissed him off.

"Listen, just do this for me and you can take the rest of the day off," Cuddy said as the came to the auditorium door. "And if you have to vomit…" she paused. "Just swallow it."

"She slid through the door. House stood still for a moment, massaging his leg, wondering whether he should take another Vicodin. He could hear her introducing him and he sighed. Nobody could have a hangover this bad.

He heard polite clapping on the other side of the door and took it as his cue to enter. He pushed the door open and limped onto the stage. As he came in, he noticed that all of the Board members were wearing lab coats. Wilson wasn't there yet. As he came up to the podium, Cuddy hissed at him "Don't blow this." On her way to her seat. House dragged his bum leg painfully up the last step onto the stage, watched Cuddy sit down, and took a breath.

"Hi," he said. "I notice that you're all wearing lab coats. That's very nice; it makes you look real official. Well, I guess you're all expecting me to talk about why you should keep my department. But guess what? I'm too damn hung over to tell you about it. Isn't that right, Dr. Cuddy?"

Cuddy looked ready to kill him. All she had to do was find a suitable weapon. House allowed himself a smirk, swallowed a stomach convulsion, and went on.

"My little speech today is also supposed to tell you about Dr. Cuddy's character, right? Well, I guess the only way she could redeem herself now is by firing my sorry ass as soon as I'm done talking. I wouldn't mind At least then I could go home and 'sleep it off.' Now, if you'll all excuse me, I believe I have a desk to be cleaning out."

He turned sharply and limped slowly and painfully off of the stage. He stumped out of the auditorium and then half-ran, half-limped to the nearest bathroom. He ran into the stall closest to the door, slumped on the floor, and threw up into the porcelain. Funny. He hadn't thought he'd had anything left to throw up…

Seconds later, he heard the bathroom door bang open. He winced. His head… But the bang wasn't nearly as loud as the sound that reached his ears seconds later.

"What the hell was that?"

House wiped his mouth on the back of a shaky hand. When he caught sight of the hand as he drew it away, he noticed that the vomit left an odd colored streak on the back of his hand. Not like anything he'd eaten recently.

"I couldn't swallow it," he muttered.

"I really should fire you, you know!" Cuddy went on. "I was counting on you in there, House! What are they going to think of this hospital now? What are they going to think of me? I don't give a damn if you're on your deathbed, if it means saving this hospital, you are going to get back out there and explain your behavior, and your excuse had better be a damn good one!"

"You aren't supposed to be in here," House mumbled. "This is the little boys' room."

He heard Cuddy stamp her foot. "Get. Out. Here. Now," she said in her most dangerous voice.

House leaned over the toilet and threw up again. "You see, I would," he said shakily. "But I'm trying to remember what I've eaten I don't remember it being quite so red…"

Cuddy was silent for a moment.

"What are you talking about?"

House heard the stall door swing open, but the sound was muted, distant. He heard Cuddy hiss, and then the sharp tap of her heels on the tile floor.

"Somebody get me a stretcher and some help!" she shouted into the hall. "And will someone find Dr. Wilson?"


	2. Tennis

Hello, once more! I was pleased with my last chapter (three reviews is a huge accomplishment for me!), so I've decided to type up the next one, even though typing is a pain, and I have no idea what's going to happen at the end of this…Whatever. I like to complain. Please excuse my lack of medical knowledge. As you may have guessed, I ain't no doctor! I get most of my medial stuff by reading old House transcripts. But whatever. I hope you enjoy it. It's taking me forever to type, cuz I'm so slow, and I wouldn't want my time to be wasted, so please review!

Disclaimer: I hereby _dis_claim all of my rights to the House characters, which I created, and give them over to Fox. May they use them well.

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_Bonk, bonk bonk…_

House didn't like the private rooms at Princeton. It wasn't the fact that they were small or felt cramped-they didn't- it was the fact that the ones in the ICU ward had one wall that was completely made of glass.

When House had woken up to discover that he was staring straight at the nurse's desk, he had, at first, been rather disgruntled. But then he had realized that, by the grace of a guilty Cuddy, he had been granted the one wall in the ward that was _not_ a window, but a one-way mirror. In a way, this still made House feel slightly exposed, but he had always been good at making the best of things (or pretending that he was making the best of things), and in this particular situation, he had found an excellent way to keep his attention off of his almost-exposure.

When he had woken up about twenty minutes ago, the first thing he had asked of the intern who was on duty (thank God for the interns-they'd do anything he told them to do without questioning it) was to go down into his office and get him his tennis ball and his portable TV. The intern, unfortunately, had not been elusive enough to sneak the television past the nurse in charge of ICU, but nobody had questioned the tennis ball, and for the past ten minutes House had been sitting up in bed, throwing it against the glass.

The little game of one sided-tennis hadn't really gotten interesting until the ball-fetching intern had gone off duty and a newer, more timid one had come onto the scene. House assumed that this was her first day, because after a moment, it became apparent that she was not aware of the fact that the "mirror" she kept looking at was, in fact, the entrance to a room. Every time that the ball hit the glass, she would whip around, searching for the source of the noise, and House would stop bouncing for a moment until she turned back to her paperwork. Then-

Bonk, bonk- 

He stopped as one of the nurses, presumably the one who ran the desk outside his room came up the intern, who was practically in hysterics. There were a few frantic words exchanged between the two and the nurse shot a stern look through the glass at House and stalked over. He managed to stash the ball seconds before her head poked into the room.

"Dr House?" she said. "What have you been doing in here?"

House looked behind him curiously, then back at the nurse. "Who, me?"

The nurse raised an eyebrow. "You see that little girl over there?" The nurse pointed to the intern, who was watching them with wide eyes and wringing her hands. "This is her first day, and all I've had her do so far is file my papers. She's already convinced that she's going insane. We like to give them at least a week and maybe some actual patients to look after before they reach that stage. So could you please do me _and_ yourself a favor and maybe get some sleep? Hm?"

"You're right," House said seriously. "I'm sorry."

He closed his eyes. He felt the nurse watching him for a moment loner, and then heard the door slide shut. He opened his eyes, watched until the nurse had her back turned, and then threw the ball extra-hard against the glass. The nurse tensed, and for a moment, House thought she was going to turn around and shout at him, but she relaxed, shook her head, and went over to her desk to call someone.

Five minutes later, Cuddy appeared at the glass. Duly, House began to beat the tennis ball against the glass once more. He'd thrown it two more times before the glass door slid open and Cuddy caught the ball in mid-throw. House wrinkled his nose at her and let his arm fall to his side.

"Well if it isn't Miss 'I Don't Give a Damn if You're on Your Deathbed.' Come to fire me, I suppose?"

"You're looking better," Cuddy said, throwing the ball back to him.

"Thank you," House said. "I'm feeling better. I must not be quite so drunk as I was yesterday."

"House…"

"You know," House continued. "I'm feeling so good, I could probably give that speech now. That's what matters, isn't it? Impressing the big, fancy investors, right?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Okay, I get it! She said. "What do you want me to do, kiss it and make it all better? Grovel?"

House shook his head. "The kissing only works for open wounds. What I want is an apology. Learn you some humility."

"Oh, for the love of-" Cuddy did not look pleased with the fact that she was being preached humility by _House_. "I'm sorry, okay? I know you hadn't been drinking, Wilson told me. I'm _very sorry._ Satisfied?"

"No," said House bluntly. "Although now that you mention it, I do have a little cut on my finger. If you want to kiss that…" He grinned, waggling his finger at her.

Cuddy glared. "You scared me House," she said. "Why didn't you tell me you were really sick?"

"I was too _drunk_, remember?" House said bitterly, coughing a little. "Ow."

"What is it?" Cuddy asked, looking concerned.

"Just my leg," House said, realizing for the first time that he hadn't had his meds. "Where's my Vicodin?"

"Right," Cuddy said, tossing him a bottle. "I had it refilled."

"How unnecessarily kind of you," House said, popping one of the little white pills and swallowing it dry. He glanced around. "Where are my ducklings? I would have expected them to be all over this."

"Oh." Cuddy looked rather sheepish. "Oh. I-didn't-tell…them. I just wanted to wait until you came around. I want to put them on the case, but I sort of… wanted your permission. I wasn't sure if it would be too personal for you to have your team on the case."

"Just because they're my ducklings doesn't mean I'm their mother," House said. "Besides, do you know what's wrong with me?"

Cuddy shook her head at her shoes.

"Well, then what is my team for?" House asked. "Go and get them. And where's Wilson?" He glanced around the room as if he expected Wilson to jump out from behind the heart monitor.

"I paged him," Cuddy said. "He'll be here in a minute. Why don't you get some sleep? You look better, but you still look like crap."

"From shit to crap," House said. "That's an improvement."

He sighed and leaned back into his pillows He heard the door open, Cuddy leave, and seconds later, he was asleep.



"I can't believe Cuddy didn't tell us before."

"She wanted you to concentrate on your other case."

That was Wilson. And the other voice…Chase? Or Cameron? He could never tell the difference between the two. Chase had such a girly voice…They were talking about him, he knew…. He kept his eyes shut.

"How's his heart rate?"

"Unsteady. Fast then slow…His body can't find a happy medium."

"0-2 SATS?"

"Normal. We're monitoring it, but there's nothing serious going on there."

"What caused the bleed?"

"Possible liver damage. We're going to have to run the tests when he wakes up…"

"Why didn't you tell us how sick he was?"

"_He_ didn't even know how sick he was…"

"Is he going to be okay?"

"I guess that depends on his doctors."

All four of them stopped talking and looked at House as he sat up in bed and opened his eyes. He felt worse than he had an hour ago, with his head pulsing a steady rhythm of pain, but he didn't yet feel on the verge of puking again, so he didn't complain. His team and Wilson were standing around him. Someone had brought his whiteboard, along with a few trinkets from his desk, and some things that looked as if they might have come from his apartment. Damn. He should have known that Wilson could find the spare key.

"Nice decorations," he commented. "Just how long are you expecting me to be here?"

He grimaced and groped for a Vicodin. Popping one into his mouth, he asked, "Have you actually run any tests yet?"

"No," said Cameron. "We sort of wanted to ask your opinion first."

House coughed. Then he scoffed. "You mean you wanted to ask my opinion," he said. "Well, don't count on it. I consider this a vacation, and I'm not planning on helping you in the least. You're all good doctors, and for now, I'm the patient. Figure it out yourselves."

Chase and Cameron looked at each other doubtfully, but Foreman didn't blink.

"All right," he said. "We're going to need a blood culture and a few other tests. We're going to do a scan to test for liver damage, and possibly for clots. We're also going to test for the flu to explain the fever. It's been going around lately."

"And we've all agreed to take shifts in the clinic to fill in for you," Chase piped in, obviously very keen on contributing to the conversation.

"Oh, thank God!" House said, faking extreme relief. "I was so worried. What would I have done if no one could have taken over at the clinic for me? I probably would have had to have gotten up and done it myself if it weren't for _you_, Dr. Chase. Thank you, you're a real life saver."

Chase looked uncomfortable. The rest of them did their best to look casual.

"I'm going to get the rest of the stuff for the blood test," Cameron said hastily, turning to go. The other ducklings followed her.

"Hey, wait!" House called after them. "What about the twins?"

The three of them looked confused for a moment. Then Chase remembered.

"Oh, yeah, the girls. They're doing better, but the lab is being lazy, we haven't gotten the test results back yet."

"They're backed up," Cameron amended, shooting a glare on Chase's direction. "They'll page us when they've got it."

"Well, get down there and wait until you have the results. Once you know what's wrong with those patients, you can come back and take as much blood as you want." He gave them a half-smile. "I promise I won't go anywhere."

"Don't worry," Wilson said, finally speaking up. "I'll keep an eye on them."

"All right," said Foreman, with a disapproving shake of the head. "We'll be back in about an hour."

They left. House let out his breath in one deep whoosh, and relaxed back into his pillow. He closed his eyes.

"How are you feeling?" Wilson asked.

"Like shit," House said. "So I went from shit to crap to shit all over again. But that's enough about me. How was your day, honey?"

"You scared me, House," Wilson said seriously. "I didn't know… You were pretty shaky last night. And you puked up a hell of a lot of blood."

House opened his eyes a fraction of an inch. For the first time, he noticed how tired Wilson looked. He wondered vaguely how late Wilson had stayed at the hospital last night.

"Sorry," House mumbled. "I didn't mean to…Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Wilson said. "It's not your fault. Just don't joke about it, okay?"

"Deal." House was almost whispering. He was starting to feel warm and sleepy. "How many sedatives have you got me on?"

Wilson smirked. "The nurse requested that we turn them up," He said. As he stood up, he clasped House's shoulder, and turned for the door. "I've gotta go, but I'll be back later. Try to get some sleep, will you? You look dead on your…back."

House didn't need telling twice.



"I don't think House makes such a bad patient," Cameron said, consulting her chart. The three of them were leaning against a wall outside the lab, having been ushered out rather rudely by the runner when they had burst in, demanding their results.

"Fifteen minutes!" The man had snapped, shoving them out of the way.

"Yeah, that's because the exhaustion was starting to kick in," Foreman said. "I'm just still shocked that House could get so sick."

"Everyone gets sick," said Chase. "Even House. It's a law of nature. Just look at his leg."

"Excuse me."

An elderly nurse with a pleasant face came up to Foreman and handed him a file.

"Your test results, dear," she said.

"Oh," said Foreman, taking the file. "Excellent."

"I wouldn't be so sure, dear," said the nurse with a sympathetic smile. "It's all negative."

"All of it?"

"I'm afraid so. Well, take care, hon."

The nurse walked back to the lab.

"Now what?" Cameron asked.

"We go to plan B," said Foreman.

"What's that?"

"To make a plan C."

"Well, let's go talk to the parents, for starters," Chase said. "Maybe there's something that they've both gotten into."

"Yeah," Foreman said. "Having never met each other, they just happened to get into the same thing at the same time. That sounds likely."

"Coincidences happen," said Chase defensively.

"Especially to twins," said Cameron. "Besides, what other options do we have?"

Foreman sighed. "Well, then let's go see the parents. The girls were moved this morning, they're just down this hall."

They found the room without any trouble. The father of the girls was outside of it, pacing a hole in the carpet. When he saw them coming, he stopped pacing and approached them eagerly.

"What is it?" he asked. "Did you find out what's wrong with them?"

Chase sighed. "The test results all came out negative. This suggests that the disease may not be hereditary. Sorry."

The father's face fell. "But…" He looked absolutely crestfallen. "How could that possibly be? I mean… I thought that…"

"Don't give up hope yet," Chase said. "Your daughters' conditions are stable, they've even shown signs of improving. We're doing everything we can, and-"

"Yeah, but you're just a bunch of kids," the distraught parent interrupted. "I came here because I heard that you had the best diagnostician in the state! A Harper, or a Heart, or…"

"Dr. House is ill," Foreman said. "He's not going to be able to take any cases for a while now."

The man looked at Foreman as if he was insane. "Dr. House is _ill_?" he repeated incredulously. "My daughters are lying on their deathbeds and your boss won't take care of them because of what? The flu? A head cold? I don't really care what it is, I want him here to fix my daughters!"

The man's eyes were shining with tears, but the young Doctors ignored him. They were ruffled by the sudden attack on their boss; they could think of nothing to say. Except Cameron.

"Dr. House was admitted to the ICU ward yesterday for internal bleeding," Cameron said coldly. "In fact," She checked her watch. We have to be getting back down there now to check on him. We'll update you as soon as we can. Have a good day, sir."

She turned and stalked off. Chase and Foreman cast apologetic looks in Mr. Wilcox's direction, and then headed after him.

"That was a little cold," Foreman said as they jogged to keep up with her brisk walk.

"He was more that a little cold to House," she snapped.

"Well, yeah," Foreman agreed. "But, uh, Cameron, his daughters are dying."

Cameron pursed her lips and continued to walk.



"Sixty-eight bottles of beer on the wall, sixty-eight bottles of beer…God, I am so bored. Oh, good, you're back."

House looked up as his three employees walked into his room, their arms full of specimen tubes.

"What took you so long?" House asked. "I've been bored out of my skull here."

"Cameron got into a fight," Chase said, tying the tourniquet on House's arm.

"Aww…" House simpered in Cameron's direction. "Did you have to go see the principal? Did he give you a scolding?"

Cameron scowled. "It was not a _fight._ It was a verbal disagreement."

"What, no face slapping and hair pulling?" House looked from Chase to Foreman. "Must have been a bummer for you guys."

"Flex your hand," Chase said. "And relax."(1)

House winced a little as Chase inserted the butterfly needle to his arm, then leaned back. Chase filled one tube, and attached another.

"So what about the girls?" House asked. "You get the results from their parents?"

"Negative," Foreman said. "Whatever they have, it's not from those two.

"Hm." House looked thoughtful. "Ah!"

"Sorry, did I hurt you?" Chase asked, looking up. House didn't answer. His BP monitor suddenly went crazy, and his body tensed, his eyes wide open, staring at nothing as his body jerked and spasmed.

"He's having a seizure!" Chase said as Cameron and Foreman hurried forward.

"Dr. House?" Cameron asked, shining her penlight in his eyes. "Dr. House, can you hear me?"

His heart rate was plummeting. Suddenly, the BP monitor gave several loud, frantic beeps, followed by one wailing one as House's heart ceased to beat.

"Cardiac arrest! Get the paddles!"

His eyes were still open, but they had lost the shine that they'd once had to them, and had taken on a dull glaze.

"Come on, House! Don't you die on us!"



**A/N**

**I have no idea if they still use the tourniquet to draw blood. I saw this in an old MASH episode, and that's supposed to take place in the 1950's, so I'm probably wrong about that.**

**Hope you enjoyed, though. I wrote this while watching "Napoleon Dynamite," so there might be a few mistakes made due to my lack of attentiveness towards what I was doing. Reviews are appreciated!**

**Jujubee.**

Update, 11/13/05 Okay, I fixed a few medical errors ( I finally did some research! Yay!) and made the seizure an actual one to fit with the symptoms. Ta!

**Jujubee**


	3. A Midsummer Carol

Ha! Finally, an update. I'm so proud of all of the reviewers. MASH rules! I was originally planning to answer any and all reviews, but then I got too many. Nevertheless, I there were a select few that I thought I should reply to.

**Secretchild:** Well, in China I'd be fifteen. I appreciate your comment, although I'm not so sure how good I am. Honestly, you're the first person ever to have said that. I am flattered.

**Bree1387:** Thank you for your comment. You have no idea how nervous it makes me to have a practical nurse reading this. I am pathetic at researching anything (which is why I write fiction), so, like I said, most of the stuff I write is from reading House transcripts. Sorry for any medical mistakes!

And, finally, **Kyo. **Am I to assume that you are the same Kyo from Gaia? If you are, I think you're stalking me. I would be afraid, but I don't think that you have enough brains to actually do anything. I did, however, have a good time laughing at your review with my friends. Thank you for providing me a good time. Also, thank you for referring to me as a "bison." They are a majestic creature-I have to wonder what you could possibly have against them. Although, if you meant to call me a bitch, you could have just said so. Also, I hope that you never visit Missouri. There are some locals there who are after your head.



"_Let's pretend your life is a movie. You rewind it. You're dead. How was it?"_

_Father Ritley, _Superstar

Dr. Gregory House had only died once before. Granted, this is more than most people could say for themselves (It is a rare being who can say that they have survived death), but although he had indeed had the experience, he could never say that he had truly experienced death. Because when Gregory House died for the first time, he was only "dead" for one minute. When one dies for one minute, they can only observe the most infinitesimally small speck of what lies beyond life.

When he died the second time, this speck only got a tiny bit larger.

Perhaps it was the fact that this death had been so sudden, or perhaps it was the fact that he had not been aware of just how sick he was at the moment, but whatever the reason, this death was different-very different- from the last.

Because the first thing that House thought when he woke up was _This isn't right_.

He was still in his hospital room. His team was all there, but they weren't moving . Just standing over him, looking concerned. Foreman was holding the defibrillator paddles. House looked to his right and saw Cuddy entering the room, one hand on the door, and her right foot frozen in mid-step, a few inches off of the ground.

House sat up, and had to grit his teeth to stop from crying out. He felt as if his whole body had just become a scab, and he had just ripped it off with brute force. It took what felt like a full minute for his body to stop hurting, and when it did, he looked down. He gasped. There was no way that it was his body that had hurt him, because when he sat up, he'd left his body behind.

"Hey," he said faintly. "I think I saw this in a movie once."

"Oh, I don't doubt it," said a voice from beside him. "That's where I got the idea."

House turned. Standing next to him was someone that he recognized, although he could not put the name to her immediately. He had met her somewhere…A bar, maybe? Although this didn't seem quite the appropriate time to be revisited by someone he met in a bar. This woman was very pretty, and much too mature to be found sitting in a bar talking to a drunk doctor. She had three colored pencils clutched in her hand, and was watching him with polite curiosity.

"Uh…" he said intelligently.

"You don't remember me, do you?" she asked, and her voice was so polite…House decided it was definitely not someone that had ever spoken to him before. He shook his head.

"I wouldn't expect you to. You ought to visit your patients more often, Dr. House."

Ah. A patient. From the looks of things, one who he had lost. The pregnant lady?

"I believe," said the woman. "that when I came to you, I was searching for someone called James."

Oh. Right. "You're looking better," House said.

The woman smiled. "Yes. Ironically, death does tend to do that to a person. How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," House said, trying not to stare at Victoria, in whom the change was incredible. "I think I'm dead."

Victoria's face might have appeared solemn had it not appeared that she was fighting back a smile.

"It is entirely possible," she said. "But don't worry, it isn't always permanent. I'd give them another, oh, minute or so. That means we have about an hour."

House didn't answer. He was looking at the frozen forms of his team. He noticed that Cuddy had put her foot down.

"I slowed down time a bit to give us time to talk," said Victoria in a gentle voice that made House wince. Every second counts for a minute now. Shall we get moving?"

She stuck out her hand and pulled House to his feet.

"Ohhh…" House let out a hiss as he put his weight on his right leg. "My leg still hurts. Why does my leg still hurt?"

"Believe it or not, that's a good sign," said Victoria. "It means that you still have a good chance of waking up. If you were…permanently dead, you would not be having any pain. Here-" she handed him a cane, which seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. He stared.

"What are you?" he asked. He was having a hard time thinking up sarcastic comments. He was too awed.

"I'm your guide," said Victoria. "I'm sort of like your three Christmas ghosts, all wrapped into one. I'm going to show you a few things."

"What, past, present and future?" House said, sure now that he was dreaming. "Where's my Marley? Don't I get some sort of warning before you come in."

"I'm afraid you chose a rather inconvenient time to die," said Victoria with a kind smile. "Marley's out for coffee."

"Then I think I'll wait for him."

"No time," said Victoria. "Come with me."

She reached out and took his hand. The scene around him melted away, revealing a new room. They were in the clinic.

"Oh, God," said House, realizing where they were. "What are we doing here?"

Veronica gave him a mysterious smile and pressed her fingers to her lips. She pointed to the door of the exam room, and House fell silent as the door swung open, and a young woman with short dark hair walked in. Victoria looked at her curiously, examining her face, but House didn't need to. He recognized her instantly.

"Stacy…" he murmured.

"Excuse me," said Stacy in her Lawyer Voice. "I need your help."

"That's what I'm here for," muttered a second voice. House turned, and saw with a jolt that it was him, standing in the corner by the exam table, drawing obscene pictures on the paper.

"I'm a lawyer," said Stacy, eyeing his drawings.

"Uh oh," said House not looking up. "What did my patients say I did now?"

"Are you Dr. House?" she asked, her eyes traveling from he drawings to House's face, which had suddenly relaxed.

"No," he said. "Dr. House is upstairs. Damn him, always getting sued. At least the lawyer's pretty this time… At least, I'm sure that Dr. House will think that you are."

"I am not here to sue anyone," said Stacy coldly. "I'm here to request a consult for a case I'm working on. I was told that you are the best."

"Maybe I am," said House vaguely. "But I thought you were looking for House."

Stacy didn't look amused. "All right then, what's _your_ name?"

"Uh," said House, still not looking up. "Bill. Bill…Billsing."

Stacy gave him a smug little smile. "Okay, _Bill_. Do you mind if I call you Gregory? See that's what it says in Dr. House's file, and you do look remarkably like him."

Oooh. Busted.

"Call me Greg," said House resignedly. "And I don't do consults. I'm too busy."

"I can see that," Stacy said, watching him draw again. "It wouldn't take too much time. My usual consult is an idiot, and I was told that you weren't. Though now that I've met you, I-"

"Dinner," said House suddenly.

"What?" said Stacy, who looked taken aback.

"We'll discuss it over dinner," House said, tearing off the sheet of exam table paper. "Saturday. Seven. Meet me here. Now if you'll excuse me, I have patients."

He pushed the confused Stacy out of the room and shut the door rudely in her face. Then he turned back to the exam table with a little grin on his face.

The same little smile was on the present House's face as the scene faded.

"She's very pretty," said Victoria softly. "The day you met her, I suppose. She must be important, or we wouldn't be here."

House suddenly discovered that his throat was stuck, so he settled on a nod.

"We have to get going," she said softly, taking his hand again. "We're running out of time."

The scene around them faded once more, and when House looked around, he saw that he was in his second least favorite place in the hospital. His throat came unstuck.

"Somebody up there doesn't like me," he said.

"You don't enjoy the ER?" asked Victoria. House shook his head.

"Too many people that have been stabbed or shot, screaming…"

" I'd call you sensitive, but I think you're just opposed to the fact that the mystery has gone out of it."

"I never was what you could call a romantic," said House, looking at a little girl being wheeled in (although the gurney was frozen in time) with bruises all over her face. He grimaced when he realized that he had just referred to himself in past tense.

"I thought you liked imperfection," Victoria commented, watching the little girl. House suddenly found himself wishing that time would speed up again so that he could stop staring at the girl.

"I prefer the unintentional kind," he said. "I don't come down here too often." He turned to Victoria. "Why am I here?"

"I can't tell you that," Victoria said. "Doubtless there's something important here, so look around. We haven't much time to linger. In fact, we should be going."

House looked around. There were nurses and doctors running everywhere-_running_- one of the reasons he never helped out on ER. A woman sat on the bench, clutching a towel to her wrist, which was bleeding freely, an man who was a yellowish color, a girl whose vomit was suspended in midair above a bucket… Nothing that seemed worth remembering.

"Times up," said Victoria softly, wrapping her fingers around his wrist. The scene faded, and House closed his eyes. All of this disappearing and reappearing made him feel faintly ill.

When he opened his eyes, they were, much to his surprise, in a private room in the oncology department. It wasn't until he saw Wilson sitting by the patient in the bed that he understood why he was there.

Victoria sighed. "Glad to see that you still have Wilson," she said.

"What are we doing here?" House asked. "Is this Future?"

"No, I'm afraid that we're going to have to forego the future for today. We've run out of time. You're here to see what you still have a reason for living for. Let's speed things up a bit, hm?

She snapped her fingers, and suddenly everything around House sprang to life. Wilson's pager went off when he was in mid sentence with his patient. He glanced down at it, stood up so quickly he knocked his chair over, and without pausing to apologize to his patient, he began to jog out of the room-and froze. His head turned, and he stared straight at the spot where House and Victoria were standing.

She snapped her fingers. The scene dissipated. This time, they did not reappear in the hospital. They did not reappear anywhere.

House had the feeling that he was floating. He couldn't see anything. He couldn't breathe. It took him a moment to realize that he didn't have to. He felt fingers wrap around his wrist, and suddenly there was a sharp pain in his chest.

"You've got a good friend," Victoria said. "I hope you decide to live."

House choked as the pain in his chest intensified.

"I thought you said…" he sputtered. "that I wasn't going …to die."

"It's your choice. It always your choice. Live or die…It's surprising how many choose death. But then, who am I to accuse. If all that life can give you is pain… what 's the point in living at all? It's easier to give up…Right, Dr. House? I think that you of all people would know. Sometimes, your patients just find it easier to die."

House coughed…He thought he coughed. Could you cough if you weren't breathing? The pain in his chest receded…

"I… never forgive… them for it…" he gasped. "Put me back. Now."

"You always were a smart man, House."

The pain started up again. "My…chest hurts." He moaned.

"They're performing CPR," said Victoria. "In slowed down time. I can't imagine it's too comfortable. Are you ready to go back?"

House's vision suddenly returned. They we're back in his room. Cameron had the paddles pressed to his chest. House looked at her.

"That would be so kinky if I weren't dead," he said. He turned to Victoria. "How do I-" she snapped her fingers. The pain in House's chest became sharper, and then, darkness.



A/N Angsty, I know. And short. Sorry it took so long, but I had to do a total rewrite of this chapter, plus, my computer needed a new hard drive, and that took weeks. At least it doesn't crash every two seconds now.

Anyway, thanks for the reviews. I apologize for the incredible cheesiness of this chapter, but in my defense, it's really hard to write about what happens when you die.

I wasn't planning on updating anytime soon, since, as I said, I had to totally rewrite this chapter (the original draft had an OC, and I didn't want to put one in right now, so I used Victoria.). But then Harry Potter came out (I finished it in seven hours. I'm rereading it now) and I had to do something to take my mind off of it. The ending was so shocking…I tried to drown myself.

But then I remembered that if I died I couldn't read book seven, so I settled on writing this. Hope you enjoy, and please review!


	4. Gloomy Doctors and Water Stains

Well, I'm back…I finally finished writing this chapter last night. I was inspired to do something when I found out that I would not be able to watch House. I missed the season premiere too, but thanks to Twiztv and their quick updates, I do know what happened! Huzzah! Well, here's chapter 4. Sorry for my lack of medical knowledge. And stuff.

Disclaimer: House does not belong to me.

4.

The darkness was followed by almost immediate light, an orangeish glare that shone through his eyelids, a dull, beautiful glow that made his eyes hurt.

His chest was burning and aching; his lungs felt like they were on fire. One word registered in his mind, more of a command than a thought. _Air_. He inhaled deeply, a raspy, gasping fish-out-of-water sort of breath and he rolled onto his side, coughing.

"Ow," he said.

There was an odd tinny sound in the room that didn't quite register in House's ears as the expulsion of four breaths that had been straining to escape tense lungs for a little over two minutes. There were other people in the room…House wanted to open his eyes, to look at them, but somebody had cemented his lids together. So instead, he passed out.

….

When he woke up, he was aware of one thing: pain. His chest still hurt and felt heavy, as if someone had shoved a brick down his trachea ad it had broken up and settled into his chest for a long stay. Groaning, he rolled over and draped one arm over his torso, his eyes blinking open reluctantly.

"That…hurt," he rasped as the forms of his three team members and Cuddy came swimming into his view. His eyes fell on the Cameron, who was helping a nurse pack up the crash cart, and he snapped, "What the hell was that for?"

Cameron looked up, looking startled. The other three jumped, or twitched or raised their eyebrows…they hadn't known he was awake.

Cameron found her voice first. What?"

"I asked you what the hell that was for!" House said, his voice growing stronger. "It hurt."

Cameron continued to stare at him as if she hadn't quite understood what he was saying. "What do you--? You went into arrest!" she sputtered shakily. "We thought you were dead!"

"You _were _dead," Foreman corrected. If House felt he had the strength to roll back over, and were to do so, he might have seen that even Foreman looked shaken. "If we hadn't defibrillated you would have been gone."

"Thanks, _dawg_. You could have at least made it a little less painful!"

Foreman stopped looking so shaken.

Cuddy was obviously displeased. She walked around the bed so that House was forced to face her and tugged unceremoniously at his eyelids, shining the brightest light that House had ever had the displeasure of looking at into each of his eyes in turn. House tried to swat her away and found that he didn't have the strength to lift his arms.

"That hurt," he muttered again. "I don't remember it hurting so much."

"Last time we only defibrillated. This time we had to perform CPR. We'll have to get him down to X-ray later, I bet Foreman cracked a couple ribs."

"Foreman? Not Cameron? Shame on _you, _Cuddy, I thought we agreed that you always had first dibs."

Cuddy tensed enough that her hands ceased their shaking. "You never cease to amaze me. Do you have any idea what just happened?"

House finally found the strength to roll onto his back, and he did so, closing his eyes. "Fascinate me," he said.

Cuddy's eyes widened disbelievingly. "You were dead, House. _Dead._ Again! And now you're lying here pretending that nothing happened."

"I think that you're making this a bigger deal than it is," God, all he wanted to do was sleep. "It couldn't have been that bad. I'm still here, aren't I?"

"You were totally despondent," Cameron said quietly.

"Really?" House was finding it hard to maintain his cynical nature while his chest ached so badly and his arms felt like lead. He no longer had the strength to keep his eyes open, and his breathing was coming more and more grudgingly. He could actually feel the bruises forming on his chest. "How odd. You see, I have this terrible allergy to death. I stop moving, my body turns all gray and swollen. It isn't pretty. On occasion, my heart even stops."

"It's not funny," said Cameron, her voice wavering. "What I meant was that before you went into arrest you were having seizure. It was abnormally…violent."

"How can you tell the difference?" House asked. "Was I angrier than most people are? Try to attack Foreman? No offense."He nodded at Foreman, and coughed groaning, tightening his arm over his chest.

"I'll uh…tell the nurse to bring in a tank," said Chase suddenly, obviously eager to leave the conversation. "for your breathing."

House was about to tell him not to bother, but the words were pushed back down his throat by another cough. So instead he nodded.

"Where's Wilson?" House rasped, realizing for the first time that the wonder boy oncologist wasn't amongst the ranks.

"I had him paged," Cuddy said. "You were only out of it for a minute, and he was with a patient. He'll be here in a minute." She looked around as the Chase came back in with the mask and the pure oxygen. Cuddy took the mask and hooked it over his head.

"You don't think this is excessive?" House asked, but he couldn't deny that a supply of oxygen was intensely relieving, and he let his muscles relax a little as the pain in his chest ebbed away slightly.

"I've never seen you this sick before," Cuddy said, frowning. " I hate to admit it, but you've got a good immune system. Seeing you like this worries me, and at this point, I don't think anything is excessive." She turned to House's team. "I want you to schedule an MRI and a CT scan as soon as possible. Then once you've done that, do it over. And," she lowered her voice. "I want a Tox screening done to see if he's got anything other than the Vicodin in his system. It's possible that the pharmacy mixed his prescription, or…"she swallowed. If it was something else… "And take away his Vicodin. Once his system is clear we'll sedate him. In the mean time, give him room to rest and then ask him if he's hit his head or been…beaten up, or something."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Foreman muttered.

"I can hear you, you know," House said to the ceiling, and Foreman and Cuddy turned around, looking guilty. "Sounds like you're going to be doing all sorts of fun things without me. I don't get to join the game, do I?" He tried his best to look pouty.

"Sorry Dr. House," said Chase, his accent thrown into sudden clarity. "But if you're going to treat all of your patients as puzzles, you've got to remember that puzzles can't solve themselves."

"Did you come up with that all by yourself?" House asked grumpily. Chase rolled his eyes.

"Maybe you should get some sleep," he suggested.

"Yeah," Foreman intercepted before House could say anything in response. "I'll be back in half an hour, I've got to schedule the CT scan and check up on the MRI."

"I'm—I'm going up to the lab to drop off your blood work…What we have of it, anyway…" Cameron was still eyeing House nervously as if she expected him to shatter if she took her eyes off of him. "Maybe the samples that we got can tell us something."

"And I'm going to go find Wilson," Cuddy said. "He's probably hung up with a patient."

They all looked at Chase.

"Uh…I could go start my shift in the clinic?" he suggested, shrugging. He looked at Cuddy.

"Wrong," she said. "You're going to take this—" she snatched up the bottle that should have been Vicodin from the stand and thrust it at Chase. "Down to the Pharmacy and find out what it is."

Chase looked at the bottle in his hand and stuttered, "I can't do that, I've got to check up on the twins and then I thought that I should go down to the clinic because Alen is sick. There's no one down there now…"

Cuddy sighed and shot Chase a look that she usually reserved for House and took the bottle back. "Fine," she said. "I'll do it myself."

"Do I get a job?" House sniffled pathetically. "You're making me feel left out…"

"You get some sleep," Cuddy ordered. "Don't take the mask off. And--" she added on an afterthought as she turned to leave. "Don't die."

"Don't be ridiculous," House said. "I would never die before you."

Cuddy shook her head disbelievingly. "Dr. House, you never fail to amaze me," she said.

Cuddy, Foreman, and Cameron turned to leave. Chase was halfway out the door when House stopped him.

"Hey, Chase!" he called. "How are the twins doing?"

Chase turned around, staring incredulously at House. "You're worried about that at a time like this? What, will your brain explode if you aren't thinking about something? You need _rest,_ Dr. House. If we need your help so desperately that we have to come to you for help, then we'll come to you. Stop worrying and get some sleep. I've got work to do."

He left. House sighed. He wanted something to _do._ They could have at least given him some paper or a book…. For a while he had been anticipating a break, but now that he had it, he found that constantly resting did nothing but annoy him. Where was his tennis ball when he needed it?

Five minutes of infinite boredom passed. House couldn't sleep despite his body trying to knock him out with an iron fist. Various thoughts kept flitting in and out of his mind and there was nothing to distract him from them.

The door to his room slid open. House looked up. It was Wilson. He was red in the face and breathing like he had been running, and yet still he managed to look like the ever-composed oncologist that he tried to be with everyone except House. House grinned (in his infinite boredom he had decided to disobey Cuddy and remove the oxygen mask).

"About time," he said. "I was starting to think you'd been abducted by a pack of beautiful women."

"Why women?" Wilson asked breathlessly.

"Because I don't think that a pack of burly men could have kept you as long," said House. "Where were you?"

"What do you mean where was I? I had a patient! And then, on my way up, the elevator stalled in between floors." Wilson exhaled, leaning over to catch his breath. "What the hell happened? You look like crap."

"Nothing gets past you," House said, wagging one finger playfully at Wilson. "Have you always been so perceptive, or have I just been a total ignoramus for the entire time I've known you?"

"Ignoramus," Wilson replied, sitting down without taking his eyes off of House.

"House," Wilson said carefully. "Are you alright?"

"Am now," said House, pretending to be intensely interested with a water spot on the ceiling.

"_House_," Wilson pressed. House ignored him, still pretending to be brooding over the water stain and how it had gotten there, avoiding Wilson's eyes with fixed determination. He had been looking forward to seeing Wilson but he should have known that there was an interrogation coming. He knew that one way or another, Wilson was going to get the truth out of him somehow, but at the moment he really didn't feel like talking about it. Not the fact that his heart had stopped—that little bit of information was far from being interesting. But….

Wilson, of course, was not like any of the other doctors at the hospital. He was special, and not only because he was a brilliant oncologist. He was also the only person left that could stand to be around House. He was the only one who bothered to ask House what was wrong, or how he was feeling when House had had a bad night and drank too much and had to come to work the next day with a massive hangover. He wasn't one to condemn constantly, either, which, although House didn't show it was a relieving change when it came down to it. He was the only one who ever visited House or spent Christmas with House. Most importantly, House knew that Wilson never did any of it out of pity. It was friendship. When Cameron used to ask House how he was doing or if he needed anything, that was pity. To her, he was _damaged._ To Wilson, he was House. He would never admit it, but House appreciated that more than anything.

There's no pity in friendship.

Whenever Cameron (or anyone really) would offer House their assistance, House would decline, often forcefully, partly because of the memories of the painful post-infarction rehabilitation. Once the required hospital rehab was taken care of, House was determined to pick up his life by himself, show the world (or perhaps just himself) that he did not need Stacy, and that he would regain full use of his leg despite the fact that he knew it was impossible. When he had finally returned to work, he used to take a painful lap around the parking garage before going in, leaning more and more heavily on his cane with every step, trying his best to tell himself that his leg did not have a white hot knife sticking out of it, that the corners of his eyes were not stinging with the tears of pain that were welling up behind them, and he had almost done it too, when his cane slipped out from under him and he found himself on the ground, his head spinning and his leg throbbing. He had no idea how long he sat in that garage, blinking dazedly, but he did know that the sound he heard next was the most unwelcome sound in the world.

"Need some help then, dear?"

A wrinkled, knobby hand was staring him in the face. He followed it up until he found a wrist, an arm, a shoulder clad in a hideous green shawl, and a white mop of hair atop a withered, gentle, ancient face.

It took a second for all of this to register with House, but when it did, it hit him like a ton of bricks. This lady was probably forty years older than him. She was so stooped and hunched that if she let her arms hang loose, they would have brushed the ground, behind her she was dragging a tank of oxygen, and even as she offered it to him, her hand shook.

And she felt sorry for him.

House had scrambled to his feet so quickly that he had almost fallen over again, snatched up his cane, and hobbled past her, muttering something rude about not needing help.

That had been the first time that he had ever really felt like a cripple. He had never told anyone about what had happened and he had no desire to. When he had gotten into the hospital, he had headed straight for the elevator, breathing as if he'd been running (another depressing thought). All he wanted was to be alone.

Wilson, of course, had stopped him.

"Hey, House! You look like you've been hit by truck. Are you sure that you're ready to be coming back to work?"

"Get out of my face!" House snarled, trying to push his way to the elevator. Wilson stepped in his path.

"If you're having that bad of a day already you should go home. I'll bring food over later and we can watch the game. Come on, go back to your car."

House had rounded on him. "Yeah, and which of your patients are you going to have help me out there?" House tried and failed once again to get past Wilson into the elevator.

For a moment, Wilson looked taken aback. Then he let out a bitter laugh. It was a semi-sweet sound.

"Do you want me to get Doris Winney or Max Dorchette?" he asked. "Max is in a coma and Doris just had her chemo. She'd probably puke all over you. Come on, House, you look like crap, but you're not _that_ sick."

House had looked up then, finally meeting Wilson's eyes. He had searched them for any sign of pity, any hint that he might be feeling sorry for his crippled friend. But he had found none. Only worry.

It's alright to worry about your friends.

"Well, give Doris my regards and tell her I won't be needing her services," House snapped, finally making it past Wilson and hurrying as fast as his bum leg could take him into the elevator. As soon as the doors had closed, House allowed himself a little smile.

Finally, his rehabilitation was making some progress.

Wilson had never found out about the lady in the parking garage that morning, and he probably never would. House knew that it was alright to worry about your friends, but not in the excess. Worrying was Wilson's job. House's job was to protect him from having to.

This was part of the issue that House was confronted with now, as he stared blankly at the little spot on the ceiling, feeling Wilson's worried eyes boring into him. He didn't want Wilson to worry more than he already was. That was part of the issue. Not all of it.

Death is not an incurable ailment, and House had proved that on more than one occasion The second time, he had had Cuddy, Cameron, Foreman, Chase and Wilson to remember it and talk about it with. Last time, in the beginning, he had had Cuddy, Stacy, and Wilson. But in the end, there was only Wilson.

Wilson had been the first, and until recently, the only person that he had told about his "visions' or hallucinations or whatever you wanted to call them during his short bout of death. It had been hard for House to talk about then, but Wilson had been rapt with attention the whole time. When House had tried to brush off the visions as nothing, Wilson had refused to believe it.

And House knew, as soon as he found out, Wilson would want to know what House had seen this time.

And the truth was, House didn't know himself. The whole memory of it was blurry, like a particularly vivid dream that you still couldn't remember all of the details of. There had been one of his old patients, that…what was her name? Damn, he had been all over the hospital with her and he still didn't know her name.

And Wilson had been there…and Stacy. But what they had to do with his death, he had no idea.

"House…" Wilson looked almost angry. "If you don't tell me I'm going to go get Cuddy."

House glanced at Wilson and then back at the spot.

"I _died_," he said with a dramatic flourish. "Now shut up."

Out of the corner of his eye, House saw Wilson's leg twitch.

"What?" he choked. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh for the love of—" House ejaculated, finally tearing his eyes from the mesmerizing spot and relocating them on Wilson's face. "_Died_. You know, the technical term for when the heart stops beating? Of course, I was never very good with technical terms, but they made us take a course on this one in medical school. Guess you missed that year. Now if you don't mind."

House made a gesture in midair that was meant to signify a mouth being zipped shut, but apparently, Wilson had never taken a course in sign language either, because he continued talking.

"_Died?"_ he breathed. "You mean—heart stopping, funeral and casket, black trench coats and paid mourners sort of…_dead?"_

"I think you're being a little excessive," House said, raising a finger. "Funerals only happen when the dead person stays dead, so don't go whipping out the black trench coat yet. Though if you do happen to outlive me, which, by the way, is unlikely, try to find some real mourners before you hire the fake ones. They're cheaper that way."

"But—but—" Wilson was more than a little pale. "But what happened?"

House shrugged and looked down, trying to look casual. "I had a seizure," he said. "And my heart stopped. Besides, why does it matter. I'm here now."

House blanched inwardly even as the words were coming out. He hadn't meant to say that. It was like giving tuna to a starving cat and wondering if he was going to eat it. House knew what Wilson was going to say next even before he said it.

"It matters," Wilson whispered. "Because this is the second time that this has happened. That's not something that most people can say, House!"

House shrugged again. "What can I say? Death isn't deadly for me, I'm just allergic to it."

"This isn't a joke, House!" Wilson hissed. "And you know that wasn't what I meant. Did you—was it like the last time?"

House sighed and leaned his head back into his pillows. "You know," he said sourly. "They say that when you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes. I should have been dead five years ago. My life's taking a long time."

"You're stalling."

House made a noise of exasperation in the back of his throat and covered his face with his hands. "Do you have to push me right now? I don't—I don't know what it was that I saw. I don't want to think about it right now. You're making my head hurt."

Wilson sighed, placing his elbows on his knees and leaning his head down so that he could massage his temples. When House looked over, the small lines on Wilson's face were suddenly thrown into sharp definition, and House felt a sharp pang of guilt followed by a throb of the head that made his vision slide out of focus and him wince.

"Can we do this another time?" he asked, willing his voice to not sound like he was pleading.

"Wilson shook his head, murmuring, "Fine. I won't ask you. I won't ask you. Like hell I won't."

House could barely suppress a smile. "Now say it like John Wayne," he said, suppressing the grin that was threatening to overtake his face. At the moment, he didn't think that enthusiasm was what his body needed.

"You know, House, or a minute I thought that just for a minute you might be able to talk about your own death without being explicitly sarcastic, but there you have it."

"That wasn't sarcasm," House objected. "That was a good sense of humor. Gloomy doctors make me sad. Crying will only make my headache worse. I had to find some way to lighten the mood without screaming 'fire,' because that would just be a hassle."

Wilson remained silent, his head pressing into his fingers, his fingers pressing into his head. He was no longer listening to House and was sitting, pensive and eerily silent. The silence bothered House. If no one was talking, he had nothing witty to snap and nothing to take his mind off the constant throbbing of his head.

And then, a high-pitched beeping broke the silence.

"Not mine!" House said, putting up his hands to prove that, indeed, he had nothing to make a beeping sound. Wilson ignored him. The beeping continued. And continued. The pounding of House's head fell into rhythm with the beeping, which it suddenly felt like Wilson had been ignoring for hours.

"Wilson," House said finally. "If you don't turn that thing off I'm going to die again, rise

from the grave and murder you with my undead self, just so that you won't be able to kill me back."

Wilson jumped as if he had only just noticed the beeping. He unclipped the pager from his belt, glanced at it, and looked back at House with a reluctant grimace.

"I'll be back," he said, standing. House waved a hand, using the other to massage his nasal passages just between his eyes. Wilson glanced back just once, then left, leaving House and his headache to dwell in their silence.

A/N and there you have it. The chapter in which nothing happens. Sorry it took me so long, but you know, I'm soooo busy winks Actually, I'm just lazy.

Enjoy!


	5. Can't think of Title

Okay, so it's been a while since I updated…ahem. Sorry 'bout that. But to make up for it, I plan to update again this Wednesday, I swear! I've just been bust (and by busy I mean "lazy"). Anyway, the rough draft of this chapter was written long before season two, as you will undoubtedly be able to tell, but I don't want to change it that much, so you can either imagine this happened between the seasons or after both of them, whichever floats your boat.

Also, a lot of you are probably wondering about Stacy… well, if you want me to put her in, I will, but she's not exactly my favorite character, because I hate the interactions she and House have: "Do you love me?" "Maybe" "How about now?" "Yes and no." "Do you love me now?" "I could…" But just let me know if you want to see her. I might put her in later.

Now, without further ado, chapter five.

Disclaimer: The plot is mine. Nothing else is.

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"The blood tests were inconclusive," Wilson said, tossing a file down on House's bed sheets. "We screwed it up."

"Figures," House said, plucking up the papers and examining them distastefully. "It's scary how helpless you are without me. What did you do wrong this time?"

Foreman raised an eyebrow. "By 'us,' I meant the Lab. Technically they are part of the hospital. They're staffing new interns because they're short on staff—the results were skewed."

House snorted. "That's a big technicality you've got there. What, do you have trouble taking responsibility for your own mistakes? What did you tell the cops when you were caught behind the wheel of that Benz with the wiring all tangled up on the floor? 'The makers shouldn't have made it so easy to hotwire?'"

Foreman didn't blink. He kept his arms crossed firmly over his chest, his head tilted slightly to the side, surveying House.

"I never stole a car," he said. "And if I had I wouldn't have bothered with a Benz."

"Oh, that's right," House said, throwing his head back dramatically as if he had only just realized whom he was talking to. "You're from 'da hood.' Can't be seen with such a wussy car. If the tests didn't reveal anything that what are you doing here?"

Foreman leaned over and plucked the file off of the bed, opening it and thumbing through it.

"Cuddy wants us to get an MRI," he said, as if he had not heard House. "And get an ultrasound of the liver. Unfortunately, there's going to be a wait on both of them. The whole hospital seems to be falling apart at the seams and Cuddy is…a little busy, at the moment."

"I had always predicted that it would happen," House said, sinking back into the pillows. "Somebody tries to off me and suddenly the whole building is falling to pieces; what will you do if I'm ever gone for good?"

"I said that _Cuddy_ was freaking," Foreman said in his ever-calm voice. "I'm not having to bad a time of things. Any particular reason why you think that somebody tried to 'off you?'"

House shrugged. "I was speaking figuratively. The Big Guy, you know," he raised his his eyebrows at the ceiling in a significant way. "I figure he hasn't been to happy with me lately."

Foreman sighed, lowering his chin to his chest and pretending to look at the file while he made his next statement.

"The bleed was probably caused by liver cirrhosis," he said. "We can't be sure until we get an ultrasound, but we're asking Cuddy to talk to the transplant board. Just in case."

House tried to ignore the pang in his chest. Transplant board, yeah right. If his liver was failing he could pretty much abandon his "outlive Wilson" plan. If his liver was failing then everyone would know _why_ his liver was failing. The whole hospital knew about his Vicodin, as did quite a few of the people outside of it—the odds of him getting on the top of any list with an addiction like his were pretty much nil. Sure, his medical license and status at the hospital would get him higher up, but that just meant a few more druggies would have to wait for another sick bastard to die before they could follow him down. But worrying was just as useless as hoping in this situation, so he swallowed and moved on.

"What about the seizures?" he asked. "You planning on doing anything about that or should I just learn to live with it? A little seizing every now and then just toughens me up, right?"

"Cuddy has a CT scan set up as soon as she can get one in. I don't need to remind you that we're swamped. Princeton General is shipping us their meningitis patients because of an overflow." As Foreman spoke, his head bobbed up and down slightly, as if he were reassuring his own words and encouraging himself to keep speaking. "Cuddy isn't happy with herself; she's been trying to care of everything at once, it's weighing her down."

"And you just tag along like a bunch of geese," House said. "So Cuddy is getting a head start on replacing me. Wonder which one of you she'll use? Right now it seems like Cameron, but if that's true I owe the devil a soul."

"You made a bet with the devil that Cuddy wouldn't use Cameron to replace you if anything ever happened to you?"

"I would make a bet with anyone that nobody would take my place no matter what," House said putting a hand to his forehead and sinking back into his pillows. His head and leg were aching. Pretty much all of him hurt, in fact, but those two pieces the worst. The needles in his arm were itching and he was _really_ wishing that he had his pants. He wanted to go home and play his piano; his fingers itched for something to do, but he was stuck. Somebody had propped his cane up in the corner, just feet away from his right hand, probably by Cuddy, right where he couldn't reach it. She probably thought he'd try to escape. No—rationality right now was almost as painful as his leg. He wanted to get up, but he didn't have any drugs in him to make him try anything. House blinked as his arm muscles twitched and relaxed, followed by the rest of his body.

"House blinked. "What's that?" His head felt heavy, his eyes dry and sticky. If he didn't close his eyes, they might fall out of his head, and he'd never be able to open them again….

"You drugged me," he slurred. "Cuddy'll kill you…"

"It's just a muscle relaxant," Foreman said. "You're sleepy because you're tired. Get some sleep."

"You drugged me and I'm telling," House mumbled. But two minutes later he was too far asleep to go tattle on anyone.

When Foreman returned to the conference room, he found Cameron and Chase at the table leaning over two huge volumes of medical text that looked like they were circa 1945. Neither of them seemed to notice him as he walked in, and they didn't look up until he asked them what they were doing.

"We're researching genetic diseases," Case explained, turning a page absently. "The twin girls are getting better and we can't figure out why. Unless it's environmental, which it isn't, because we checked their homes. Their parents are getting titchy: if they get any better we'll have to release them, and there's no telling if they might relapse."

"So we're going through texts to make sure that our patient's don't get better without our help. From House's rationale that could be considered logical. Considering it's you, though, why?"

"The parents are being irrational," Cameron offered. "They're demanding that we release them just because Chase said they were improving."

Chase threw her a dirty look. "They want them released because they can't stand being around each other," he amended, his tone hinting at annoyance. "We've got to find something to convince them that the girls need to stay here, at least a little while."

"Good luck," said Foreman, slapping House's file down on the table. "Although I still say that you _are_ the lucky ones."

"House giving you trouble?"

"The usual, I guess," Foreman said. "I gave him one mg of Ativan. I don't think he realized how tense he was, or how nauseous he looked. And he was looking like he was considering escape."

"Bad luck man," said Chase unsympathetically, returning to the gigantic medical volume. "I feel bad for you, really."

"Foreman laughed bitterly. "Bad enough to switch with me?"

Chase put his hands up, signifying surrender. "Don't even try it," he said. "We drew straws, remember?"

"And you rigged it," Foreman muttered, sinking into a chair. He looked around suddenly, as if he'd just realized something. "Where's Cuddy?"

"Pharmacy. The clinic is swamped. Nobody can figure out anyone's prescription. Turns out one of the interns knocked over a delivery cart the other day and was too afraid to tell anyone. Thought she'd get in trouble so she just swept it all together and misshelved it. The nurses are panicking and Cuddy is spitting fire. 'Course she can't even get into the clinic because of the overflow, all shoving each other around. Won't be long before a riot breaks out." Chase allowed himself a grin. "Cuddy feels obligated to sort it all out."

"And I take it that you don't?" Foreman raised an eyebrow. "You don't think House could have gotten a misfilled prescription? It would be the only thing that I can think of to explain all his symptoms."

Cameron looked startled. "If it is, at the dosage he takes the Vicodin, a misprescription could be fatal."

"A misprescription could be fatal no matter what," Foreman said. "But if that is the case, I doubt it's going to come to that. He's off of what ever it was now, and if it was that severe, he would have been long dead by now."

Cameron furrowed her brow, stood up, and pushed her way out of the room without saying a word.

Chase put on his best "I don't know what the hell is going on" face (possibly subconsciously) and cocked his head at Foreman. "What's gotten into her?" he asked. Foreman shrugged, watching as Cameron made her way briskly past a disgruntled lab technician.

This week would just not end.

The storeroom behind the pharmacy was an absolute mess. There were at least eight people crammed inside the tiny room, all of them trying to sort through piles of medicine high enough to fill fifty prescriptions twice over. At the head of the mayhem was the man who usually ran the pharmacy, the usual bored look gone from his face, replaced by one that was tired and rather unhappy.

"Move those boxes over there, Anna, not to the front. No, I don't want you to throw that away, for god's sake, we need that!"

Cuddy made her way past a few frantic interns and over to the guy running the show. When he spotted Cuddy, his shoulders sagged and he sighed.

"Dr. Cuddy," he said. "Thank God. We've been trying to get a hold of you all morning. Did the nurse I sent to find you give you the message?"

"Yes," Cuddy said. "I've been with Stacy, I had to sort through the files of all the patients who came through here yesterday. She's trying to track them all down." She held out House's prescription bottle, and the pharmacist took it, examining the label.

"Dr. House, eh? Any idea when it was last filled?"

"This morning," Cuddy said. "I had it filled myself."

"Who filled it for you?"

"One of the interns," she said. "I think he gave me the wrong pills."

The pharmacist gave a rueful laugh. "No doubt," she said. "It'll be a miracle if we don't get a few law suits over this one, even with that new lawyer running all over the state trying to avoid it. She'll never be able to collect all of the scripts before some sort of disaster occurs—another one I mean. Here—" He gave her the bottle of pills back. "The damn intern didn't even tell us she'd mixed up the pills until this morning when a man came in covered in hives from head to toe—allergic reaction. She had a guilty concience."

"So the pills have been mixed longer than just today?" Cuddy asked, alarmed. "Are we going to have to shut down the pharmacy?"

The pharmacist shook his head, touching one of the shelves behind him. "Nah. We just can't hand out anything from this shelf."

He looked away from Cuddy and popped the lid off of House's bottle, shaking a few of the pills into his hand. He picked up one of the little white pills and examined it.

"This is Vicodin," he said after a brief pause. Cuddy let out a sigh that was both relieved and disappointed. Now they were back to square one.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

The pharmacist nodded and held up the pill. "This is Vicodin," he said. He picked up another pill from the small pile on his palm. "This is not."

Cuddy took the pill from him. It looked like Vicodin, just slightly yellow in color. It would be hard to tell the difference if she didn't know that it was there.

"That's a sleeping pill," the pharmacist said. "Lucky for Dr. House, not a very strong one. Taken at a high enough dosage…well, you've seen it enough, I'm sure. As for Dr. House, I hope he hasn't been driving lately."

Cuddy nodded distractedly, turning to go. As she went, she heard the pharmacist say "Somebody get the big bottle of Vicodin out here. The day isn't over yet!"

**Another short chapter for you. Not much, but you know, better than nothing. I will update soon if I get reviews…. ;).**


	6. Chapter 6 How's that for original?

Well, I promised that I would update quickly if I got reviews, so I guess I owe you guys. In the last chapter you probably noticed that there should have been a few "break lines" where I switched point of view, but they didn't come up. Hopefully that has been corrected in this chapter, and I'll try and suppress my laziness enough to fix it in the last chapter. Thank you for all of your input!

Oh, and I should probably warn you, the conversation between House and Wilson pertaining to religion does not necessarily reflect my opinions and is not intended to offend. I simply put it there because this sort of thing seems to come up often in the show. Don't take it seriously.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

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"How can you watch this stuff?" Wilson asked, gesturing at the television, which was currently blaring a rerun of some soap opera that Wilson didn't know the name of and had never seen before. House was apparently rapt with attention: when Wilson spoke, he pressed a finger to his lips without looking away from the screen.

"Shhh…" he said. "You can't question this show. Just…pretend that everything is right. And shut up."

"But it doesn't make any sense," Wilson persisted. "How did she even get into his room? Aren't there supposedly four bodyguards outside?"

"You're completely missing the point," House said, stuffing a handful of chips into his mouth. "It's not that it's supposed to be the way that things are, it's that it's supposed to be the way things should be. Why the hell do you think I watch the damn show? Now _shut up."_

Wilson was silent for a second. He had only arrived a few minutes earlier, sporting a tray full of hospital food to find House sitting up in bed, looking considerably healthier and entirely absorbed in the show. When Wilson had entered, however, he had looked around hopefully.

"Food?" he asked.

"Well, yeah, I guess you could call it that," Wilson said, depositing the tray on House's lap. House grimaced.

"Anything solid? Or more edible?"

"Sorry, no," Wilson said, taking his seat. "But you remember what that one guy said once, right? 'I reject your reality and substitute my own.' Pretend it's a steak."

"From that amazing quotester anonymous no doubt," House said. "Only a man who had everything he wanted would say something a stupid as that." He poked at his soup with his spork. "How about this one? 'If thou art soup, thou shalt not jiggle.' Eleventh commandment. Not as well known as the first ten, but I think that we should at least _try_ to observe it."

"_That_ commandment didn't quite make the final draft," Wilson amended. " And the commandment that God forgot was 'Thou shalt observe the commandments.'"

"You have the logic of a murderer," House said. "You're taking all the fun out of it for all of us who never do that evil crap. If we think that we can't kill people we at least have to think that it's because someone told us not to."

"We? Us?" Wilson repeated. "You think you should cut down on the personal pronouns?"

"I've never killed anybody," House objected.

"Maybe not on purpose," Wilson muttered. "But one could hardly call you a saint."

"If I looked hard enough I could find somebody who would," House countered. "But you'll never find anyone who would be able to get me to eat soup that jiggles. What do you have in the bag? Anything edible?"

Wilson took his own lunch bag and pulled it out of House's reach. "Not for you," he said. "Cuddy'll kill me if she catches this in here."

"Yeah. God forbid somebody bring _food_ into a hospital room." House rolled his eyes. "C'mon, what have you got?"

"A sandwich, chips. Nothing quite so interesting as you've got."

House grimaced at the tray and poked the soup again. Jiggling was an exaggeration—but not by much. House stuck out his tongue. "I would never feed this to _my_ patients."

"Your patients eat this every day; you just don't care about them enough to look. C'mon. If you eat all of it I'll give you the chips."

Wilson hadn't really expected House to do it, but twenty minutes later, the tray was empty and House was eating chip after chip, despite Wilson's guilty conscience telling House to take it slowly as they watched whatever soap it was that was on the TV at the moment.

Although they were still laughing and talking, Wilson couldn't help feeling that House's laugh was slightly forced, and the look in his eyes distant. Wilson kept laughing and talking, but watched House warily out of the corner of his eye. He was sure that something was up, but he wasn't sure that he wanted to ask House personally.

The couple on the screen were now fighting. The woman had false tears glistening in her eyes, and the man was refusing to look at her as she pleaded with him not to go. Wilson was vaguely reminded of House and Stacy and their more than a little stressful, hectic, and inconsistent relationship. When House had adamantly refused to let Stacy know about his admittance to the hospital, Wilson had almost been tempted to go behind his back and let her know anyway ("She isn't your proxy anymore, and she's going to find out soon enough anyway.") but in the end he had decided against it. It was House's choice who he wanted to tell, and besides, she would be out of the hospital for the next few days—she could find out when she got back. Not before. And _not _from Wilson.

"You sure that nothing is bothering you?" Wilson asked finally. He hadn't meant to say it—it was one of those thoughts that got off on the wrong exit on its way to the brain and somehow got off at his mouth. House looked up from the screen and put on his best patronizing face.

"I don't remember ever saying that I _wasn't_ bothered, but now that you mention it…No, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Again, with the unintended dialogue!

House put down the bag of chips, now nearly empty, and said with his mouth full, "Well I _am_ in a hospital, which, if you think of it can be a bit of a put-down. But on the plus side, if something _does_ go wrong, I know you'll be there to pound the life back into me." He touched his bruised ribs tenderly and gave Wilson a significant look. "You were already starting to weird me out with the whole 'God' thing. I thought you were Jewish?"

"I _am_ Jewish," Wilson said, annoyed. "We believe in God. We practically invented him."

"Whoa," House said, looking startled. "Now who's the egomaniac? Doctors are supposed to develop a God complex—you've got the reverse god complex thing going. I don't think the big guy'd be too happy if he hears that you think you created him—or was it your 'clan' that did that?"

Wilson opened his mouth, perhaps to object to House's disrespect, or to try and pursue the topic of House's feelings (although neither was especially appealing), but he was spared from either when the sharp tap of heels and the sound of the glass door sliding open announced the arrival of Cuddy. She opened her mouth upon entry, spotted the chips, and said "What are those?"

House looked at the object in question and opened his mouth, but Cuddy put up her hand.

"Just—don't answer that. What are they doing here?"

House pointed to Wilson, staring at Cuddy with wide, innocent eyes. "Fink," Wilson hissed. House shrugged, smiling congenially.

Cuddy sighed, rolling her eyes in exasperation, and leaned forward, snatching the remaining chips and depositing them in the trash receptacle by the bed. Then she reached up and snapped off the TV.

"You know this isn't allowed," she said.

House looked back at Wilson, putting a hand up to his mouth and stage-whispering "I think _somebody_ needs their nappy."

Cuddy gritted her teeth and jammed her hand into her pocket, retrieving the little yellow pill bottle and thrusting it at House.

"Your prescription was misfiled," she hissed. "Sleeping pills got mixed in with the Vicodin."

Wilson's jaw dropped. House raised his eyebrows. "Well that would explain why I've been so sleepy," he said.

"You're lucky you're not _dead_!" Cuddy said loudly. "And if you had been doing your regular dosage you probably would have been! Do you even look at the pills before you shove them down your throat?"

"Sheesh. You almost make it sound like you're blaming me for this."

"I need to know _exactly_ how many pills you took yesterday," Cuddy said. "And don't screw around with me House, I don't have the patience for it."

"Well _yeah,_" House agreed. "Jeez. Weren't you taking some class on anger management? If not, you really should consider it."

"Just tell me how many you had," she said. Wilson shifted, suddenly awkward.

You mean after I had it refilled?" he asked. Cuddy gave him a look that said quite clearly _Well what do you think?_

"_Three,"_ House said. "One at night right after I had it filled and two in the morning before that little speech you had me do. Neither did much for my leg, but then again, I fell asleep right after the first and the other two didn't last very long."

He opened his mouth and pretended to stick his finger down it in a "barfing" motion, then closed it, sinking back down into the pillows, putting a hand to his forehead. "Speaking of puke…" He paused as his stomach did a back flip and landed on its face. "Maybe I shouldn't have had those chips."

Cuddy turned around impatiently and waved a hand at Wilson, who began to rummage through the cupboard on the far wall for a basin, breathing slightly uneven from the frustration he had towards Cuddy, House, and himself He was angry with himself for letting House sucker him into the chips, mad that Cuddy was berating House for it, but mostly just sad that House had to go through any of it again. House and Cuddy were still talking, but it had been blocked out by the roaring in his ears House was absently clutching his thigh, and Wilson knew he was desperate for a Vicodin, but too prideful to ask for one. If they didn't figure this out soon and get him back on his normal pain control regiment, he was going to start showing withdrawal symptoms, which would not only screw up any chance they had of figuring out the source of the problem, but also probably kill him. Wilson had the feeling that the only thing that kept him from asking was the fact that he hadn't actually been using the leg for nearly twenty-four hours.

"I don't think there are any," Wilson announced finally. "Do you want me to get a nurse?"

"Don't bother," House said, swallowing convulsively. "I can swallow it."

Cuddy straightened up defensively. "You're never going to let me live this down, are you?" she asked.

"Not a chance," House said, smiling vaguely, his eyes closed.

Cuddy sighed, subconsciously brushing her jacket off with her palm. "Thank you, Dr. House," she said, turning to Wilson.

"Can I please talk to you in the hallway, Dr. Wilson?" she asked, giving him a highly significant look. Wilson nodded, giving her a questioning look, which she only returned by jerking her head in the direction of the door. Wilson made to leave, only pausing long enough to hear House say, "In the hallway? God, at least get a room."

"He's nauseous again," Wilson said as soon as Cuddy has slid the door shut behind them. "I should get a nurse…."

"Nausea is a symptom of withdrawal and pain," Cuddy said. "We can't give him anything else until either his system is clear or we find another cause. I'm sure you know that sleeping pills couldn't have caused all of this."

"Well we can't just leave him in pain," Wilson said, at last voicing some of his frustrations. "Even if it is just withdrawals, the nausea will exhaust him, but he can't sleep because of the pain. We have to give him _something."_

Cuddy nodded sympathetically, but said "I know that it's a vicious cycle, but there's nothing—"

"In his condition withdrawals could be fatal," Wilson cut in.

"It's not your case," Cuddy said. "You can't be objective."

"And you can?" Wilson's voice rose in volume, and a couple of the nurses looked over at them. "You're his friend, aren't you?"

"I tolerate him," Cuddy corrected. "This hospital is full of people who hate him or tolerate him, but you're his _friend_."

Wilson shook his head. "I can't just do nothing," he said.

"We can't give him pain killers or sedatives," Cuddy said. She sounded rushed, and she wasn't looking Wilson in the eye as she spoke. The reluctant look that she didn't know she was giving him reminded Wilson of the one that had been on House's face for the past half an hour.

Yeah. Something was definitely wrong.

"What are you—"

'We think his liver might be shutting down. Cirrhosis is the most likely candidate." Cuddy still didn't look him in the eye, choosing instead to focus on a spot some six inches above his left shoulder. Wilson couldn't get him to look him straight on, not even when his face collapsed on top of itself.

"What?" he asked weakly. "That can't be—you haven't even done an MRI!"

"Internal bleeding, weakness, fatigue…They're all signs of cirrhosis. We have to assume—for the time being—that his liver is shutting down."

"We don't have to assume anything!" Wilson was shouting now. We don't have any proof! It could be a goddamn ulcer for all we know!"

"Cirrhosis is more likely, or…." She sighed. "I'm sure you've realized that this could be cancer."

Wilson shook his head, looking down and blinking hard.

"Cancer doesn't account for the headaches or the seizure," he said, more quietly. "Neither does cirrhosis."

"There could be some component that we're missing, or—"

"Or you could be entirely wrong!" Wilson exploded. Cuddy drew back, her brow falling in distress.

"Wilson, I _know_ you—"

"Just—don't!" Wilson burst, his hands up to the sides of his head. He took a deep breath, pointed a finger at Cuddy, changed his mind about whatever he was about to say, turned on his heel and made his way briskly down the hall. Just before he reached the corner, he turned around, walking backward. "He doesn't have cancer," he called. "And he is _not_ going to die!"

And he disappeared around the corner. Cuddy stood awkwardly in the corridor for a moment, staring after him, her jaw locked up. Then, suddenly aware of all the stares she was attracting, she turned around, and went back into House's room.

"Lover's quarrel?" House asked as soon as she stepped into the room. She obviously looked upset, and her gait was slightly unnatural, hindered by the fact that she was staring at her feet. House had watched Wilson shouting at her, but he was going to pretend like he hadn't. He was also going to pretend like he hadn't heard the conversation.

Cuddy ignored his comment. "How's the leg?" she asked, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"Hurts," House grunted. "What were you talking to Wilson about? Where did he go?"

"Dr. Wilson had a page from oncology and had to leave," Cuddy said stiffly.

"Liar," House shot. "What were you doing out there?"

Cuddy's shoulders sagged as she sighed, letting her arms fall to her sides.

"Dr. Wilson doesn't think that your symptoms have anything to do with your liver," she said.

House paused, considering the possibility. The thought of liver damage made his stomach clench every time he thought about it—the thought that it might not be, for some reason, made the sensation worse.

"There are…other things that could explain it, yeah," he said slowly. "Of course it is—"

"I don't think it's your liver either," Cuddy said. "It doesn't explain the seizures or the headaches."

"But it does explain—"

"How long has it been since you slept?" Cuddy cut in. House swallowed.

"I sleep," he said.

"How much?" Cuddy asked, refusing to be deterred. House had a brilliant analytical mind, but he would not be his own patient again, not while he was in her care. This time she was his doctor, and he was going to act like it whether he liked it or not.

"Not much," he admitted. "But I never sleep much. Not part of my job. I'm sure you know what it's like. Bet you never sleep with _that_ bod."

Cuddy's eyes widened and her jaw clenched, but part of her was glad that he still had the energy to shoot some biting comment at her. She could refrain from commenting further. Shaking her head slightly, she said "How long since you had any Vicodin?"

"Too long," he said, rubbing his head dramatically. "If I was on my feet I wouldn't be able to walk."

Cuddy smiled sardonically and snatched his chart from the foot of his bed, making a note towards the bottom.

"I'm prescribing a sedative in four hours if you can't sleep through three of them. That should give your system time to clear itself of Vicodin and anything else that you managed to ingest."

House closed his eyes, relaxing his face and then scrunching it into an expression of intense concentration as he put a hand to his forehead. Something was nagging in the back of his mind, but he didn't know what it was. Cuddy and Wilson fighting, the shocked faces of the board, his team…all of them swimming in and out of his thoughts, but he couldn't seem to get a hold of any of them, keep them in his head for more than a moment, and it frustrated him. He was used to being able to concentrate on a single problem until it was solved, but now he wasn't even sure which problem he should be concentrating on at all. God his head hurt….

"I'll send someone to check up on you later, Dr. House," he heard Cuddy say, and then the sharp click of her heels as she left the room. His leg twitched and his eyes flew open, staring at the ceiling tiles that he had counted twice over in his infinite boredom. It was his leg again, always his damn leg, through the infarction and everything that came after. Crappy day at work? Blame the leg. Wilson angry with him? Leg made him do something stupid. He couldn't sleep because his leg hurt, and now he couldn't even concentrate…but was that the leg's fault?

Inability to concentrate. That was a symptom of…a thousand things. How was he supposed to tell which one it was if he couldn't even _think?_ His eyes watered from the pain and his vision blurred. He closed them, shook his head (which only served to make it throb harder.

_Another symptom…_He thought. _I'll keep that in mind for when the ducklings get back…._

But by the time the thought had entered and exited his head, he was already asleep.



Time for some total randomosity! Have any of you ever seen I, Robot? I'm watching it again, and I just realized that the guy who plays Vogler is in it. When he came out and started blowing robots apart with his giant gun, I started laughing so hard I couldn't breathe—It looked so silly! And then my sister gave me a weird look.

**Anyway, enjoy!**


	7. Fantasy makes for great halucinations

**Holy wow! Is that an update I smell? Why yes! Yes it is! **

**So, once again, I haven't updated in…oh, four months. Not quite half a year yet. But I am sorry. I'm also thrilled to have gotten 100 reviews! Yay!(!)**

**So, sorry. Again. I'll just get to it now.**

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Wilson found Cameron on his way back to his office as he fumed through the hallways, his shoes occasionally leaving black skid marks on the white tile when he made a particularly sharp turn.

"Dr. Wilson," she said, trying not to let her surprise show on her face. Dr. Wilson looked more agitated than she had ever seen him--when he wasn't with House. "I would have thought that you'd be with House. Judging by how quickly you're moving, I would guess that he's either much better or worse. Which is it?"

"What?" Dr. Wilson said distractedly. "Oh, yeah, he's fine. I was just…going to my office to get some patient files. Excuse me--"

Wilson made to leave, but Cameron stepped in front of him, preventing him from leaving, looking up into his face with a mixture of worry and concern. "Something has you upset," she said. "And it isn't just the obvious."

Wilson looked at her, then shook his head and passed a hand over his face. "I guess it isn't exactly subtle," he mumbled.

The cafeteria was just down the hall. Cameron touched his arm awkwardly, not entirely sure what to say.

"Do you want to sit down?" she asked. "You don't look very well."

Wilson considered, then nodded, and the two of them made for an empty table in the corner. Cameron sat across from him and folded her hands, leaning over them toward him.

"Am I really that obvious?" Wilson asked, attempting a smile. Cameron retuned it bravely.

"No," she said, sarcastic in an "I really-want-to-cheer-you-up" sort of way. "I just happen to have very acute female instincts. Well, that and the fact that you were making skid marks on the floor. And you were coming from the direction of House's room."

Wilson looked up at her, his expression almost identical to the one that House wore when he wanted her to stop being so…much like herself. It wasn't a mean look, just one to get the message across.

"I'll, go with the 'feminine instincts,' then," she said, turning her head in a poor attempt to cover her slightly exasperated smile. She pretended to be intensely interested in the light above their table while Wilson caught his breath and gathered his thoughts. When he seemed rational again, Cameron turned back to him.

"Sorry," he said.

"No." Cameron shook her head. "You have every right. I just don't think I've seen you so worked up before."

"I'm not used to it either," Wilson said. "I don't think I even get as mad at my wife--ex-wife as I do at House." He blushed lightly when he realized what he had just said, but Cameron pretended not to notice.

"So it is House you're angry with," she said. It wasn't a question.

Wilson exhaled. "Not exactly. Well--yes, but--not really."

Cameron looked at him questioningly. Wilson seemed to realize that he wasn't making any sense, so he continued, looking down. "Cuddy thinks his liver is probably failing," he said. "We won't know until we run the tests and get an MRI but the signs are all there. It's…pretty likely."

He looked back up at her. Cameron's face was expressionless. Wilson was worried, and she could obviously see that, but he worried a lot about House. He treated House like a child--a spoiled child who needed to be unspoiled. Wilson was trying to play caretaker even though he wasn't quite sure how to do it, and he was bound to get overly worried sometimes. House's motorcycle, his hay fever…he made a fuss because no one else would. But now, Cameron thought, there was really something to be worried about.

"Well, we'll get right on the tests and we'll know by tomorrow morning," she said calmly, trying to sound comforting, and as if the news were not news to her. "And if we do, the transplant committee knows House and--"

"They know what?" Wilson interjected suddenly. "That he's a drug addict. Maybe if he didn't flaunt it to everyone he meets he might have a chance. But do you honestly think that anyone on the transplant committee is going to give him _any _leverage at all? After skipping clinic duty for years, not visiting patients…and what about Vogler? Do you think they've forgotten that?"

Cameron's voice had grown considerably quieter when she answered "No."

"No!" Wilson agreed fervently. "They hate him! They'll be fighting as hard as they can to make sure that House is put _after_ all the drug addicted drunks that they have on the list. House has _really_ screwed himself over this time!"

The reality of what Wilson was saying took a moment to settle in with Cameron. House could be dying. Could be. Dying. Even saying _could_ didn't make the prospect any better, and for a moment, Cameron felt just as dazed as Wilson was upset.

"But," her brow was creased, her lips down turned into an appropriately concerned frown, "Cirrhosis wouldn't explain the seizures or the headaches, so there's no way--"

"Not if we're looking at the symptoms as a whole," Wilson said, sounding defeated. "But it would be a stretch if the headaches and the bleed were related. House would like to think they are--but only because that makes it more interesting. Horses, not zebras, right?"

"Occam's Razor," Cameron said quietly.

There was a short awkward silence, and then Cameron's pager went off.

Wilson looked up sharply. If something had happened to House, they would have paged him too, right? Or did Cuddy really think that he was not capable of being objective enough to be in on it?

Cameron, fortunately, noticed the look and said quickly, "It's not House." She gave him an apologetic look and said, "I'm sorry, I have to go. Are you alright?"

Wilson nodded, and looked back down at his hands as Cameron stood up and walked off. He had a lot to think about.



"What's up?" Cameron asked as she approached Foreman and Chase, both of whom were standing outside of the twins' room. She made to enter immediately, but Foreman stopped her.

"Don't bother," he said. "They're checking out."

"What?" Cameron said.

"They're leaving," Chase replied. "Wouldn't bother going in there if I were you, Daddy'll just kick you out again."

Cameron made for the door again. She could see the parents inside, determinedly avoiding each others eyes as a nurse checked the two girls out. The twins looked good--good color, breathing on their own, and both looking completely miserable. One of them (although Cameron couldn't tell which) noticed Cameron watching them, and met her gaze, smiling half heartedly, as if to say "Oh, well, it was nice while it lasted" and then she looked back at her sister.

"This is ridiculous," Cameron murmured. "They don't even know what's wrong and they want to check them out? What if it was environmental? They're just driving back to the source! They could get sick all over again and maybe even die!"

Foreman made an indistinct noise in his throat, shaking his head slightly. "Yeah," he agreed, "that's a possibility. Except medically there's nothing wrong with them. Why do you think we couldn't convince the parents to let them stay? What good are our tests if there's nothing there to find?"

Cameron cast around for a reply for a moment, and then conceded. "They're not," she agreed. "But don't you think that we should…." She trailed off, staring into the room. Foreman turned and clapped her on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

"Let it go," he said. "Sometimes patients just do this and there's nothing that we cn do to stop them."

"Do what?" Cameron asked.

"Get better," Foreman replied. And he walked away.



When House awoke, his headache had once again defied the possible and increased tenfold. For about half a second he considered calling a nurse a doctor--anyone-- and begging them to give him something, anyone to help his head and his leg, but pride soon proved too great.

The room smelled horribly sterile and it made his nose hurt. It was dark. Too dark. Usually the lights were blazing mercilessly, but now they were off, and the curtains drawn so that the room was almost pitch black.

His leg hurt.

A lot. More so than usual, even. He assumed it must be partly because of the fact that he hadn't had a Vicodin in a long time, but lying still shouldn't have irritated it this much.

The door to the room slid open, and for a brief moment, light flooded the room. House turned his head to the side and blinked into the white light to see who it was.

"Stacy?" he said, completely nonplussed. What was she doing here? Hadn't he kicked her out ages ago? He thought that she had been sent home to her little wheelchair-ridden husband where she belonged, like a good little girl.

Stacy closed the door and turned to face him. She looked strangely disheveled; no makeup, hair looking like she might have slept on it wet. She folded her arms across her chest and scowled as she stared him down.

"That fink!" House said. "I should have known Wilson couldn't keep his fat mouth shut."

"You're a real idiot, you know," she said, flicking on the light switch. House raised n arm to shield his eyes against the sudden glare.

"So this is an interrogation," he said. "All right, copper, you can ask, but you can't make me talk."

"What were you thinking?" Stacy hissed, striding across the room towards him. "You could have killed yourself!"

House raised an eyebrow. "Um, I think you might have me mixed up with someone else. You see all this here? It's not my fault."

"_You didn't tell me,"_ She said, her neck craning forward. She was speaking through her teeth. "I heard it from Wilson and then had to come see for myself. You _always_ do this!"

"Yep," House agreed. "It's not my fault you haven't gotten used to I yet. Hey--d'you think that we should break up?"

"Greg!"

"You're right, the sex is too good," House said. "Speaking of, this bed is big enough for two if you wanna--"

Stacy threw up her hands. "And what am I supposed to do if you die before we can get through your records? I can't do them all myself, you know!"

_That_ caught House off guard. She didn't even work here anymore. So what was all this about records? Surely she wasn't serious about this?

"What?" he said, sure that he must not have heard right.

"Oh, you heard me, Greg," she said. "Oh, I can't wait to hear what Mark says about this!"

"Yeah, he'll run me over with his wheelchair," House said uncertainly. "Just be sure he doesn't leave any incriminating tire tracks. Stacy, are you--"

Stacy suddenly lunged forward, seized his wrist, and dug her fingernails into his skin.

"Ow! Hey--Stacy--ow!"

"Just shut up Greg," she spat. "I'm going to make the decisions around here now."

Her fingernails dug in deep enough to break the skin, and blood flowed down his wrist, warm and thick. He tried to wrench his arm away, but she held fast.

"Hold still, Greg," she said. "This'll be over in a second…"



Foreman had somehow managed to pull "House-keeping" duty again. Cameron had looked vaguely disappointed--Chase had practically thrown a party in the staff room.

"Always the black guy," he muttered as he approached House's room. As he reached the door he shrugged his shoulders and popped his knuckles--physical preparation for the inevitable mental torture that was sure to follow as soon as he opened the door. Then he put on his best "I'm-visiting-a-patient-I'd-better-look-cheerful" face and stepped inside.

The room was entirely dark. All of the lights were off, the curtains drawn, and House's dark silhouette sitting up in the darkness.

"Stacy?" he said as Foreman entered the room. Foreman paused In the act of closing the door and gave House a strange look.

"Not quite," he said. "Why are the lights out?"

"That fink!" House said. "I should have known that Wilson couldn't keep his fat mouth shut."

"I'm just here to check up on you, House," Foreman said, flicking on the light. "Any other secrets you might have are safe, I swear."

House put an arm to his eyes. "So this is an interrogation," he said. "All right, copper, you can ask, but you can't make me talk."

"Yeah," Foreman said, chuckling as he crossed the room to check the IV catheter. "How are you feeling, Dr. House? Comfortable? Do you need anything?"

Ah, the humanity. Silently, Foreman cursed his use of the usual bedside manner and braced himself for any biting comment that might come next, but it never did.

"Um," House mumbled, his voice barely audible. "I think you must have me mixed up with someone else. You see all this here? It isn't my fault."

Foreman raised an eyebrow, looking over his shoulder at House. "Are you feeling all right, Dr. House?"

House was hunched over slightly, his eyes unfocused, staring at nothing. His head looked like it was putting too much strain on his neck, which was craned forward, his head tilted slightly to the side, mouth slightly agape.

Foreman turned around, taking his penlight out of his pocket. He placed a hand on House's shoulder and pushed him back into the pillows, He shined the light in both eyes, watching them carefully. Neither was dilated, both reacted to the light.

"Do you think we should break up?" House mumbled.

"Dr. House!" Foreman said loudly. House's head lolled and he said something that sounded vaguely like "sex" and then "This bed is big enough…"

"Dr. House! Can you hear me? This is Dr. Foreman! Do you know where you are? House!"

"What?" House said suddenly, the creases in his forehead deepening.

Foreman stood up straight, shaking his head slightly, and crossed the room to the phone. He picked it up and dialed the two.

"Run me…wheelchair," said House.

"Nurse's station," said a voice on the other end of the line.

"Yeah, this is Dr. Foreman," said Foreman. "Can I get a page on Drs. Chase and Cameron? Tell hem it's--"

Foreman stopped abruptly as House suddenly shot up straight in his bed, clutching his wrist. "Ow!" he said. "Hey--Stacy--ow!"

Foreman hung up the phone, moving quickly back over to House. His heart monitor was slowing as House's hear sped up, his O2 sats falling. House was still gripping his wrist, staring at it as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Then, violently, House fell back onto the pillows, his shoulders curving, his back arching as his extremities began to twitch.

"Nurse!" Foreman cried, grabbing House's shoulders and rolling him onto his side. "Nurse!"



…**.Yes. This scene was a little weird for me to write, but I did anyway! So there: )**

**As always, reviews are appreciated.**

**And as to the incredible response to my little _I, Robot _comment, I was impressed by the number of you that commented on it. So how many of you think I should write a fic called "I, Vogler"? Cuz I totally do.**

**Or not.**

**Anyway, I hope to update before my birthday (May 3! Yay! I'm almost 15!). If I don't, please feel free to throw things at me.**

**Oh, yeah! I was really thrilled to see that House can speak Mandarin, because I CAN TOO! Okay, not really, but I know enough that I understood most of the conversation that he had with the girl. Sweet, huh?**

**Anyway, zaijian! Ni qing kan wode shu! Xiexie ni!**


	8. Turkey Season

**Ahem. Hello again all. In one month, this fic will be one year old. I'd like to think that both my writing and I have improved some in that time (but I honestly don't know. God forbid I go back and read my earlier chapters.)**

**As a one year anniversary present, I would like to offer my sincerest apologies to you for being so slow to update and would also like to give you the opportunity to throw virtual objects at me…virtually.**

**Or, better yet, here's an update.**

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House was on the ventilator again. During the seizure his O2 sats had dropped at a scary rate, and then failed to come up again at a fast enough rate after said affliction was over. House wore a scowl underneath the mask, and stayed begrudgingly silent as the diagnostics team mulled about in his room, checking his vitals over and over again, murmuring to each other. Justas House was about to implode himself (just to annoy them), Foreman spoke up.

"All right, House," he said, his hands behind his back. "That last seizure was pretty serious, so Cuddy's making sure that you get that MRI this afternoon. In the meantime, we'll keep you on the oxygen for a few more hours and get a lumbar puncture, in case it's an infection we missed. Until then, you should try to rest."

They turned to leave. "Hey!" House said, his voice muffled by the mask. Foreman turned around and said, "You probably shouldn't try to talk, Dr. House," in his best patronizing tone.

House rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to make a rude gesture with his hand, and instead signaled for them to turn out the light.

Foreman flicked the switch, so that only the emergency light flickered dimly in the corner, and then stepped out, with Cameron and Chase in tow, sliding the door shut behind them.

"Respiratory distress," Chase said. "That's another symptom of cirrhosis."

"We should get him on the transplant list," Cameron said matter-of-factly. "If we wait, it could be too long; he might not get the liver in time."

"We haven't even confirmed—" Foreman began. Chase interrupted.

"What good is that going to do?" he asked, addressing Cameron, who stared at him.

"The cirrhosis is obviously pretty far advanced, Chase. Even if it does turn out that this is something else, we should at least get him on the list as a precautionary—"

"That's not what I meant," Chase interrupted again. "It might sound awful to say it, but do you honestly think that the committee is going to put House on the top of the transplant list? I mean, it's not as if the whole hospital doesn't know that he's a drug addict."

"Chase, I hardly think that the transplant committee will overlook the fact that Dr. House has done so much for the hospital, and if we act now--."

"Yeah, right," Chase said, scoffing. "The board is practically ready to name a wing after him. He's only lost the hospital a hundred million dollars, tortures his patients, tortures _us_—Hey, I'm not complaining," he added, noticing his colleagues looks. "I like my job, and I respect House, but I'm trying to be realistic here. It doesn't mater what I think of him though. The fact of the matter is, House is a jerk, and the whole hospital knows it."

"Are you placing values on someone's life based on personality traits, Chase?" Cameron asked coldly, folding her arms over her chest.

"What? No!" Chase objected. "But that's what the transplant committee is paid to do—and what they're going to do, _especially_ considering the patient is House. I don't think we should waste our time trying to convince—"

"You think that saving House's _life_ is a waste of time?" Cameron nearly shouted. Foreman, who had been attempting to look pensive and uninterested, noted Cameron's stance and decided that it was time to intervene.

"Hey Cameron." He placed a hand on her shoulder and she turned to face him, exhaling steam. "Let it go. This is just the way that cowards deal with their emotions."

"I'm not—"

"What Chase doesn't realize, however," Foreman continued, his voice slightly louder, "is that if we _don't_ try, it's not just House that's going to be in a hole." He threw Chase a withering version of his best "you are an _idiot_" face. Case responded by rolling his eyes.

"You can't honestly think that Cuddy would cut a whole department just because House wasn't there," he said.

"Is that all you think about?" Foreman burst. "Your Goddamn job? That's also not what I meant! Don't you ever think, just for a second, that if House died you might be adversely affected maybe the tiniest bit? This isn't about your job, it's about a patient. Who's _dying."_

And then, just as the two looked ready to pounce, a voice from inside the ward made them all turn.

"Hey! Kids!" House had pulled the mask away from his face and leaned forward to shout at them through the glass. "Stop fighting and do your homework or I'll take away the MRI machine for a week, do you hear me?"

"Pt your mask back on, House!" Foreman shouted back, regaining his composure.

"Then get out of here!" House replied. "It's hard enough to sleep around here without you three arguing like a bunch of prepubescent middle schoolers."

Foreman leaned over and tapped sharply on the glass. "Go to sleep!" he said loudly. House stuck out his tongue and snapped the mask back on, closing his eyes

Foreman took a deep breath and turned back to face Chase and Cameron. "Okay," he said, calmer now. "House is right. Cameron, you come with me to check up on the MRI and see how much longer the maternity overflow is going to have the ultrasound machines. Chase, you go prep for the LP."

Chase looked almost disbelieving for a moment, then he sighed irritably and said, "Yeah."

Both Cameron and Foreman turned to leave. Chase watched them go expressionlessly, then shrugged, turned on his heel and headed off in the opposite direction to find a nurse.



"Good afternoon, Dr. House," Chase said, as cheerfully as he could manage, as he walked into House's room a half an hour later, two nurses in tow. House cracked a bleary eye, reached up, and took the mask off.

"Dr. House, I don't think you should—" Chase began.

"Yeah, I'm going to let you tell me to wear a mask the whole time just so that you don't have to listen to me through this. Believe me, a little shortness of breath is _well_ worth the fun."

Chase's lips tightened slightly as he moved around the bed and began setting up for the procedure, but he didn't say anything in response. He sat down next to the bed, paused, then said "Can you roll onto your side, or do you need the nurses to help you?"

A nurse threw Chase a dirty look.

"Haha," House said, rolling over to face away from Chase. "I take it you're bitter because you 'drew the short straw.'"

Chase finished swabbing the injection port and jabbed the anesthetic needle into House's back more roughly than was necessary. House jumped, hissing, and then relaxed, trying to glare at Chase over his shoulder.

"You know, if I were to take that as an indicator to your sexual life, I'd say you were _awful_ in bed."

"Take a deep breath," Chase instructed. He readied the needle, House inhaled, and the needle went in. House winced, but didn't make any noise.

"Are you performing a Lumbar Puncture or basting a turkey?" he asked, trying not to squirm.

"You tell me," Chase muttered.

"What happened to you? Somebody insult your _mummy?_"

"My mother's—"

"Dead," House finished for him. "Yeah, we know, you don't have to flaunt it like you're all proud. Just because your mother's dead doesn't mean people don't insult her."

House twisted his neck in time to see Chase scowl. "Aw, come on now Mr. grumpy face," he simpered. "Did Foreman give you a time out?"

"How come you listen to Foreman more than you listen to me?" Chase asked. House exhaled, trying to relax the tension in his back and arms that came with having a foot-long needle stuck into his spine.

"Union rules," he said. "Gotta go with the black guy before we go with the wussy Brit."

"I don't enjoy being treated like an idiot," Chase said coldly.

"Then you should stop acting like one," House suggested. Chase's hand slipped slightly. House yelped. "Ow! Hey! Eyes on your work young man!"

"You don't take me seriously," Chase said. "I'm a good doctor."

"Oh no!" House said, feigning concern. "Somebody call the _waah_mbulance!"

"All right, I'm done," Chase said, capping off the sample and handing it to the nurse. House rolled onto his back and Chase stood up.

"You'll want to lie still for a while, Dr. House. The procedure can make you feel a bit dizzy," he said stiffly.

"Wow," House said, smiling in a way that might have suggested he was impressed, had it not been for the fact that he was…House. "You _really_ know your stuff, Dr. Chase!"

"You don't have to patronize me," Chase said dully.

"Me? Patronize you? You don't know me at all, Dr. Chase!" House said, in the same patronizing voice.

"I'm going to get this sample to the lab," Chase said, turning to leave.

"Do you want me to kiss it and make it all better before you leave?" House called after him. Chase closed the door without answering. House smiled slightly at his retreating back. "And _that_ is why I don't take you seriously, he said softly, closing his eyes. His headache had gone from pounding to throbbing, but it felt like there was a slightly less weighty anvil sitting on his face. On the other hand, his back was sore. Opting, however, to ignore the pain, he scratched at his IV catheter absently, and within moments, he had fallen asleep.



**Well, it was a little short. I cut out a scene because it didn't fit with some of the things that have happened recently in the show. But you don't need to know that! In fact, you don't need to know anything I say after the chapters are finished, but here I am…who's up for another randomosity?**

**So I ate about twenty Popsicles while I wrote this chapter. It is friggin HOT out here! What does this have to do with House? Nothing. But Popsicles are good.**

**Oh, and one more thing before I leave:**

**_v._ e·jac·u·lat·ed, e·jac·u·lat·ing, e·jac·u·lates: _To utter suddenly and passionately; exclaim. _**

**GET YOUR MINDS OUT OF THE GUTTER, PEOPLE! Please think in LITTERARY terms while you read this! PLEASE!**

**Although your comments were pretty funny.**


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